


to tear down boundaries

by savannahrunes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Character Death, Enjolras is a wizard and Grantaire is a muggle and they fall in love, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, Les Amis take on the Battle of Hogwarts, M/M, Magic, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, mostly focused on e/r but we get background les amis, not too major but still present, with R as their muggle sidekick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-10 07:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15944900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savannahrunes/pseuds/savannahrunes
Summary: This isn’t a revolution, it’s a fucking fight for humanity. But it's not your fight, GrantaireGrantaire stumbles across magic and Enjolras all at once; he can't help but think the two are entwined. He isn't sure which one fascinates him more, but knows that he doesn't want to go back to a world without either.





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is a labour of love for me. i essentially took two of my favourite things (hp and les mis) and smooshed them together in a way that i hope you enjoy, it was a lot of fun to take the characters from les mis and apply them to the hp setting (with a few little easter eggs/parallels from both). it's my first time writing enj and r, and i'm scared that i've butchered their characterisation, but this fic has taken me far too long to write and i just want to share it with you all. it is complete, but i've split it into three parts to be uploaded weekly just for ease of reading so you're not reading 23.5k words all at once lmao  
> please let me know what you think!

November 1997

Softly, with the distant clink of the bottles in his carrier bag, Grantaire padded his way through the snow on the main street. The village was quiet, content, sleepy. It always was whenever a blanket of white descended on it, with people preferring to stay inside with their fires and hot drinks as opposed to face the biting cold.

Grantaire was the exception, as he usually was. While everyone else complained about the cold and the snow he revelled in it. The cold was something he could easily shake off, and he liked the tranquility of sitting outside and puffing his breath out with a bottle of wine in hand. Winter brought with it its own beauty, and Grantaire considered himself lucky to be living in a part of England that was far north enough that he actually saw snow.

Predictably, there was no one else out on the main street. The snow was still falling, albeit gently, and the ground was devoid of footprints, so when Grantaire sank his boots into the snow he could hear a satisfying crunch. 

He was heading to his favourite spot to sit alone and drink and take in the world, just outside of the actual village where he could see the countryside unfurl around him. His best paintings had been conjured up as he sat and watched the world go by, even if they weren’t landscapes of what he was actually seeing. There was something about being out in the world, being around nature, that sparked in Grantaire’s chest and got his creativity flowing. The small village that he had lived in his whole life had always been claustrophobic to him; he had gotten to the stage where he was sick of seeing the same people and the same buildings everyday. He was itching to finally get across the expanse of fields that he has looked out across so many times, to be somewhere new and inspiring and invigorating. As soon as his gap year was over and he had enough money, he was taking his car and driving to London without a second glance at the place he had grown up. 

Everyone else who lived here definitely thought he was an oddball. He wasn’t surprised nor he did he even remotely care. He’d pretty much embraced the fact that he, as a bisexual aspiring artist who was at least tipsy half the time, was never really going to fit in with the church going farmers that tended to populate the village. He’d been aching to get away since a trip he’d made to London with his mother when he was fourteen, just before she’d passed away. The hugeness of the city, the endless possibilities of it all had swept him away. He’d explored virtually every nook and cranny of his hometown, even back then. It was with sharp focus that he had realised that village life was simply not for him. It was too still, too  _sedentary._ Nothing ever changed, and Grantaire hadn’t realised how much he’d craved change until then. Plus, he was never going to get any work or training as an artist in the middle of fucking nowhere, and all the best art schools in the country were in London. It seemed a logical choice, and he was vaguely proud that he at least had some form of a life plan. Even if it was probably one of the riskiest ones; art was always going to be a tough way of living.

Floreal, his co-worker at the small café he worked in and probably his best friend in the village, had reminded him not to stay out daydreaming for too long. He probably worried her to death if he was honest; he was surprised that he hadn’t got hypothermia already. When he was alone with his thoughts time slipped away. He could spend hours with a bottle and the fresh air and occasionally a sketchbook. 

He headed off the main road, making his way through the winding streets and alleys that led to the edge of town. He was barely paying any attention to the roads, considering they were dead and that he knew them so well. A lone car trundled down one of the residential streets. The rest of the paths were asleep, despite the fact it was mid-afternoon.

He had nearly made it to his spot when the weird shit started happening. As he was about to turn the corner, he heard cracking noises that almost sounded like whips. Alarm bells started ringing and he wondered, vaguely disturbed, if he was going to round the corner and see some sort of kinky sex act going on in the street. But then there was a shout of “Crucio” and a sharp cry of pain and suddenly Grantaire was racing round the corner.

He couldn’t explain rationally what greeted him, but in the moment all he could see was a young man around his own age with startling blond hair crouching on the ground and an older man standing over him. At first Grantaire thought that he was brandishing a gun, but as he got closer it appeared to be a short stick of wood. On its own, it wouldn’t have appeared threatening at all, but the man had a thunderous look on his face and the blond guy flinched when he raised the stick against him. Grantaire had decidedly stumbled upon the oddest brawl in the world.

And then there was a flash of light which seemed to emanate from the stick—wand?—and the blond guy has his own wand to defend himself with. His back was towards Grantaire, but he heard a cry of “Stupefy” and another flash moving towards the older man, who promptly deflected it with some sort of invisible force field.

Neither man had noticed Grantaire, who was now standing on the corner of the street gaping at the two of them. They were too absorbed in their duel or whatever seemed to happening.

“What the fuck!” Looking back, he definitely shouldn’t have brought any attention to himself and slowly sidled out of that situation, but he was too shocked at what he saw that he couldn’t help but swear loudly; it was his automatic response. 

Both of the men broke their focus and stared at Grantaire, seemingly shocked to see someone else on a public street. The blond turned to face him for the first time, and even from afar Grantaire was struck by how beautiful he was. Beautiful was the right word; he wasn’t necessarily hot or fit but he was  _beautiful._

In fact, Grantaire was so distracted by his beauty and still in shock from what he’d just witnessed that he barely registered that he was shouting at Grantaire. “Run, run away, run!” 

The older man seemed to use Grantaire’s arrival to his own advantage. He shot a flash of light in Grantaire’s direction, but before he could react to it and move the beautiful blond guy had stepped in the way and had begun firing back. His opponent lashed out and he barely managed to defend himself against the inexplicable streams of green light. One seemed to hit him as he cried out in pain again but he continued firing.

Perhaps it was some sort of reaction to the shout or maybe just the fact that this stranger had just defended him against god knows what, but without thinking he’d found that he’d made his way across the street and was now closer to the fight. Maybe he should have followed the advice and ran away but he couldn’t just leave someone who may well have saved his life to fend for themselves in a fight. And maybe it had something to do with the fact that the blond was  _really_ pretty, but Grantaire was getting closer and closer to the fight.

His saviour, the blond guy, looked at him with contempt and utter confusion as he approached the two of them. “What are you doing, you idiot? Get out of here.” Grantaire, who had never been one to follow any sort of order, was now standing right in front of the older man, who had brown hair and forgettable features but was snarling at the pair of them. He moved his wand a fraction, but Grantaire was close enough now to swing his arm back and punch him in the face before he could even lift his arm all the way up.

He went stumbling back, clutching his face and staring at Grantaire with shocked eyes. This earned him a grin; clearly neither of these two had anticipated that Grantaire had taken boxing classes all the way through high school. Whilst he was still too surprised to move, Grantaire punched him again, this time so hard that he fell on the floor, momentarily unconscious with his wand having fallen out of his hand. His knuckles were definitely going to be bruised after this, but it was worth it simply for the look that blondie was giving him as he turned around. It was incredulous, shocked but definitely low key impressed. 

“What just happened?” He seemed to be more amazed that Grantaire had punched someone than about the fact that two minutes ago he had been shooting beams of light from a stick of wood. Which made absolutely zero sense, and honestly Grantaire was wondering if what he had just seen was some sort of weird hallucination or something. It might have made more sense if he was drunk or high, but Grantaire was pretty sure that he was currently painfully sober.

“I think I should be asking you that. But before we start with the questioning, we should probably get out of here, before he wakes up or someone else sees.”

Seemingly in a bit of a daze, he nodded at Grantaire’s words and bent down to pick up the discarded wand from next to the unconscious man. Grantaire was priming himself up for running, but before he could take off he felt a hand on his arm. The fingers were gentle but the touch startled him so much that he whipped around, only to find that reality seemed to be melting away. Vertigo, acutely sharp, washed over him as his surroundings blurred and there was a roaring in his ears. The next thing he knew, they were no longer in the small village Grantaire had lived in all his life. They were somewhere new and totally alien, surrounded by trees and not much else. Definitely not the houses and cars that they had been next to a moment ago. 

“Okay, what the actual—” He was interrupted by his stomach finally deciding to join the rest of his body in this new location and subsequently forcing all of its contents spewing onto the floor. Luckily, the blond-haired guy had stepped out of the way, so Grantaire didn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of vomiting all over the guy who he’d just saved from a fight.

When he was done and his body felt vaguely normal again, he stood up properly and turned to take a proper look at the other man. He was tall, certainly taller than Grantaire, and slim and slender. He was wearing a startling red coat which was tattered at the edges and jeans which had seen better days. His hair was immediately the feature that stood out the most, with it being a rich blond colour that was almost like gold particularly where the harsh winter’s sun glinted against it. His face was soft, delicate and almost feminine, but his deep blue eyes were steely and determined. Grantaire thought that he looked like a god in the midst of a battle; perfect but in a harsh way. 

He was now looking at Grantaire with an expression of apology, but also agitation and maybe the beginnings of anger. There were a lot of things that Grantaire was currently failing to comprehend about this situation, but why he would be angry after Grantaire had essentially saved his life was beyond him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the contents of Grantaire’s stomach that were spread all over the ground. It was the first time that Grantaire noted that he spoke with a French accent. “It can be a little disorientating the first time.”

It was the fact that he spoke so calmly about the fact that they’d apparently teleporting that set Grantaire off. 

“Oh yeah sure, a little disorienting, that’s great. What the fuck just happened?” 

He hesitated, as if unsure where to begin to answer Grantaire’s question. “It’s…complicated.”

“Complicated? You were firing light from a stick and we were in the street in Colby and now we’re in the middle of a forest in god knows where. Yeah, complicated.”

He was freaking out a little and he knew it, but the adrenaline that had caused him to punch the other man was fading and now the full gravity and complete bizarreness of the situation was beginning to hit him. He wasn’t even sure if he had punched the right man; for all he knew he’d just run off with a murderer or something even more fucked up.

“I shouldn’t tell you anything, not really. I should wipe your memory and send you back.” He said this with a casual air without faltering, but the look on his face was conflicted. 

“You’re not going to wipe my memory.” As soon as he said the words, he knew that they were true. “I saved your life back there, or at least helped you get out of the fight quicker.”

The other nodded, as if only now making up his mind. “You’re right. I suppose I should thank you for that. Although I do explicitly remember telling you to run away multiple times. And you ignoring me.”

“Thank you accepted. And I was never going to run away from a fight; I’ve seen my fair share of bar brawls and I've taken boxing classes, so I know how to handle myself.  So now that we’ve settled that my memories are going to remain thoroughly unwiped, would you care to fill me in on what’s going on? I’m still kind of freaking out over here.”

“I suppose I should.” He stuck his hand out, catching Grantaire off guard. He must have stared for it for few seconds longer than he should have before shaking it slightly hesitantly. “I’m Enjolras.”

 _Enjolras._ The name fit him, foreign and fancy. It rolled off his tongue fluidly, and his French accent became more pronounced when saying it.

“Grantaire. Or R, if you prefer. I don’t mind.”

Enjolras smiled as he worked out the pun behind it and Grantaire was struck by how it lit up his entire face. He hadn’t realised just how solemn and serious Enjolras had looked before until he saw what a simple smile had done to his features. 

“ _Parles-vous_ _Fran_ _cais_ _?”_ He seemed much more comfortable speaking in his own language, and Grantaire would be lying if he didn’t say that it made him even more alluring. French was a beautiful language, the language of love if you will, and spoken by a beautiful man sent his heart fluttering a little. 

 _"Ma mère était française."_  His mother had taught him French as a little boy, had dreamed of taking him to Paris where she'd grown up but had never gotten the chance. _"_ But you’re getting distracted from the point. Magic wands? Teleportation? Memory wiping? And just who did I knock out?”

Enjolras shrugged. “The short version is: magic is real. I’ll tell you the long version if you let me cast a couple of spells to protect us from other people like the one you punched and promise not to freak out too much. I figure I owe you that much.”

Grantaire nodded, and sat down as Enjolras took his wand and started muttering things under his breath. He needed a moment to wrap his head around what he’d seen and what Enjolras had just said.  _Magic._ Magic was real. He’d seen magic, actual real magic. Enjolras was  _literally_  magic; he didn’t just seem magical and god-like. He was suddenly regretting putting down his carrier bag of bottles on the street back in Colby, he could really do with a drink to take the edge off right now.

When Enjolras had finished and sat down on a tree stump next to him, Grantaire was bursting with questions. Eloquently, the first one he actually asked was, “So… magic?”

“Yes, magic. I’m a wizard.” A part of Grantaire was still expecting this all to be some sort of elaborate joke, but Enjolras said that with such seriousness and sincerity that he couldn’t help but believe it. Enjolras spoke with a sense of absolution behind his words that made him immediately trustworthy to Grantaire.

“There’s a whole magical community across the world that you muggles don’t even know about,” Enjolras continued. “But things are bad at the moment. Wizards and witches and muggles alike are in danger.”

“Muggles?” 

“Non-magic people, like you.” Grantaire was unsure of whether to find this insulting or not, but he let it slide. “The guy you knocked out, he’s part of the group of people that are putting everyone in danger. They’re called Death Eaters, and they follow…” He trailed off. “ _Merde_ _.”_

“They follow who?”

“I can’t say his name; it's been jinxed so that they can track anyone who says it out loud. We tend to call him You-Know-Who, except in this case you don’t know who, or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” A light seemed to light up behind Enjolras’s eyes as he clearly thought of an idea. “His name is flight of death in French.”

Grantaire’s French was good, but not perfect. Vol de mort? Voldemort? It seemed like an odd name, although maybe it was normal for wizards to be called odd names like Voldemort.

He began to say it aloud, not really registering what Enjolras had just said, but he was quickly silenced by a scathing look. “I just told you why we don’t say his name. So don’t say it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that saying a word can allow people to track you. This whole magic thing is still a bit abstract to me, you know?” 

Maybe he shouldn’t have responded with sarcasm, but then again maybe Enjolras shouldn’t have scolded him. It earned him an eye roll from Enjolras, but he seemed to get away with it because Enjolras carried on talking as if he hadn’t talked back at him. 

“You-know-who is the darkest wizard of our time, possibly the darkest wizard ever. He’s somewhat of a magic purist, meaning that he thinks that anyone who doesn’t descend from so-called ‘pureblood’ families and who doesn’t follow him is automatically a blood traitor. He hates muggles, thinks we should rule over them, over you. And he’s utterly ruthless and frightens the entire wizarding community.”

And this is it. This is what makes Enjolras tick. Grantaire can practically see the passion rolling off him in waves, can it see the way his eyes light up and his hand gestures become more frantic. He  _really_ hates this Voldemort guy, but more than that, he  _really_ hates the ideals that are driving him. The fact that ‘magic purism’ even exists is abhorrent to Enjolras; the way he says the words conveys his emotions more than any explaining ever could. 

It turned out that once Enjolras had started talking about this, it was very hard to make him stop. He had a voice and, more importantly, a passion that completely enraptured Grantaire, making him hang off Enjolras’s every word. He spoke of war, of Voldemort gathering followers and feeding off the prejudices that were already present in the magical community. He talked about the chaos, then about the uneasy quiet after Voldemort had gone quiet. He talked about a boy named Harry Potter who survived the killing curse from Voldemort and who was now sort of the leader and only hope in the fight. He talked about the rise of Voldemort, about the horrors that have followed, about the Snatchers and the deaths and the fights.

It was all still a bit overwhelming for Grantaire, but he was beginning to piece together the world that he’d just accidentally been thrust into. It was alien and a tad terrifying, but he was fascinated by it all. 

Mostly though, he was intrigued by Enjolras. Enjolras who, despite talking about such dark and frankly depressing things, retained a hope that things would get better. Grantaire admired his passion, the way he talked about issues as though they were things he could singlehandedly fix, and maybe he wished that some of it might rub off on himself. There was also something about him and his passion that made

The sun was nearly setting, and involuntarily Grantaire found himself shivering. There was nowhere near as much snow here (wherever here was) as there was back in Colby, but it was still the UK and it was still November so it was probably only just above freezing. He may have had his coat on, but he’d lost track of how long they’d been here with Enjolras talking and filling him in on this whole new world.

“Are you cold?” The question startled Grantaire; this whole afternoon had been Grantaire asking the questions and it was to have Enjolras suddenly ask him one, to care enough to ask him if he was cold.

“A little. In case you’ve forgotten, it is winter.”

“You should have said. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a wizard.” At this, Enjolras produced his wand from his coat pocket. “Incendio,” Enjolras murmured, and a flame of orange fire spouted from the end of it. From his place just next to Enjolras, Grantaire could already feel the heat of the flames.  

“If we get a bit of wood, I can light a proper fire. If you’d like?” Enjolras said, with the last bit tacked on a little uncertainly. “Or I guess, I could take you back…”

“No,” said Grantaire, who still had so much more he wanted to know about magic and, selfishly, about Enjolras himself.

About ten minutes later they had a roaring fire to warm their hands over. There seemed to be no difference to a normal fire, despite the fact that it had been created by magic but Grantaire still marvelled at it. 

“So how did a French guy like you end up in the middle of nowhere, England, fighting off Death Eaters?”

If Enjolras was getting tired of Grantaire’s constant questioning, he didn’t show it. “I went to school here for the last two years. Well, technically in Scotland, but still. I saw first-hand what You-Know-Who was doing, how it was affecting the magical community here in the UK. And I couldn’t just go back to France and forget about it all, forget about my friends here. I couldn’t hide, not when there was even the smallest chance to fight against You-Know-Who and the injustices that he stands for. I have to do  _something._ Even if that means nearly getting caught or killed by Death Eaters. So I rallied my friends back in France and we came here because we can help, and we can fight. This is  _important,_ Grantaire”

There was a part of Grantaire that wished he was Enjolras in that moment. There was a passion coating his words; Enjolras was fire and hope and freedom personified. Grantaire was just about struggling through his own mess of a life, but Enjolras, this strange wizard he’d met in literally the oddest circumstances, reeked of optimism and a desire to selflessly help others. 

Grantaire knew rationally that he should just leave it and agree, but he wanted to hear more. And so he found himself saying, “Okay, I get that. But what can one Frenchman really do in this huge, messy, confusing fight?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he sort of regretted them because he wasn’t entirely sure if he meant them. But he could see Enjolras getting a little angry and riled up just from the twitch of his mouth, could see the ticking bomb in him begin to explode. 

On anyone else, anger was an ugly emotion. But on Enjolras, this kind of anger just set off that passion and spark he had, and it was so strange but Grantaire was already hooked on the absolute spectrum of Enjolras’s emotions.

“Does it matter? What one Frenchman does? If I can do anything at all, even if that means just slowing down a single Death Eater, I will.”

And Grantaire believed him.

* * *

 

Grantaire woke up shivering and disorientated, unsure of where he was and how he had got there. At first he thought he’d fallen asleep in his spot, but as he cracked open his eyes he noticed the remnants of a fire, an unfamiliar woodland and a blond man sleeping next to him on the ground. So it had all been real then, the fight and the magic and Enjolras. 

He must have woken up Enjolras when he started moving and before he knew it, they were both awake and looking at each other. 

“What now?” Grantaire asked. He couldn’t imagine just going back to his own little village and forgetting that this had ever happened.

“Now, I take you back and then find my friends.” Enjolras was nothing if not blunt about it, but Grantaire wasn’t having any of it. He’d made up his mind at some point that this wasn’t going to be the end of whatever the fuck this was. He craved to be around Enjolras and his magic and his politics and his world more than he’d thought possible.

“I want to come with you. I want to see more, to know more. Did you really think I could just go home and pretend now that I know a literal magical war is being fought under our very noses?”

Enjolras sighed. “I can’t take you with me. Not only is it dangerous, but you’re a muggle. You wouldn’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I think you explained it pretty well last night. Evil magic guy with a huge group of followers. A lost leader of the rebellion. Magical duels. That’s enough for me.”

There was a hint of anger behind Enjolras’s words, but not enough to deter him. “Last night you were mouthing off my cause and now you want to be a part of it?”

He shrugged. “Every revolution needs its cynic. It doesn’t mean I don’t believe in what you’re doing fundamentally, I’m just healthily sceptical.”

“This isn’t a revolution, it’s a fucking fight for humanity. But it’s not your fight, Grantaire.”

Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was being an absolute idiot by wanting to stay, by being so stubborn with Enjolras but the part of him that just didn’t care had taken over. Life in Colby had always seemed a bit bleak to him, but it would be even bleaker now knowing all of this was happening and he was sitting around doing nothing.

“On the contrary,” he said, “It became my fight the moment I punched the Death Eater.”

He was fully prepared to stare Enjolras down, but something changed in the blond’s eyes and he said “You can stay until I find my friends. Then I take you back, no arguing.”

Grantaire’s smile widened. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to be travelling around alone in such a dangerous foreign country.”

Enjolras did nothing but roll his eyes and Grantaire knew he’d won. He felt a weird sense of satisfaction knowing he’d worn Enjolras down, despite not fully knowing what he was walking into here.

This time, when they gripped hands to apparate, it felt a little strange. Before they’d been in such a rush that Grantaire hadn’t had a second to consider it, but now holding hands with Enjolras made his cheeks go a little red. Which was so stupid, but Enjolras was an attractive man and Grantaire didn’t get the opportunity to hold hands with attractive men very often. Brief flings didn’t really extend to holding hands.

That lurching sensation hit him again, but at least he had expected it this time. The world around him spun and spun, and all of a sudden he was somewhere else entirely.

* * *

 

It turns out that being on the run wasn't quite as fun and exciting as Grantaire had initially thought. 

He wasn't entirely sure what he had been expecting, but the reality of sleeping in the middle of nowhere as Enjolras tried and failed to track his friends didn't line up with any image he'd had. With anyone else the whole affair would have been the most boring thing in the world, but Grantaire had to admit that any time spent with Enjolras sent butterflies flapping around beneath his skin.

Enjolras couldn't seem to work out a plan on how he was going to get back to his friends, which was honestly more frustrating to Enjolras than it was for Grantaire. He kept lamenting that they should have set up a rendezvous point or some way to send a message, cursing his past self for not thinking about it. It was actually quite amusing, particularly when Grantaire realised that he slipped into French when he was agitated, mumbling in quite colourful language about how much of an idiot he was.

" _You do realise that I can understand everything you're saying?"_ Grantaire said once as they sat in their little makeshift camp in front of the fire as Enjolras was going on a spiel about the advantages of foresight.

Enjolras jerked a little, having clearly forgotten that Grantaire could speak French since all their conversations had been in English.

After a few moments of silence, with nothing but the fire crackling between them making a noise, Grantaire spoke up again. "Tell me about them. About the friends that you're so obsessed with finding again. They clearly mean a lot to you, from the way that you talk about them."

He could hear it in the longing tone with which Enjolras used whenever he talked about his friends. It was more than just desperation in getting back to the safety net of having other wizards around him who would probably be infinitely more useful in a duel than Grantaire would (not that he'd ever admit that to Enjolras). He genuinely missed them; it made Grantaire ache a little. 

"We call ourselves Les Amis de l'ABC. Kinda stupid I know, but you're not the only one who likes puns." Enjolras's soft smile gave away his affection for the name, and for the group.

The way Enjolras spoke about his friends had a quiet sort of passion, very different from the simmering rage he had when he talked of the war. He told Grantaire of Courfeyrac, the joker of the group, and Combeferre, the quieter yet infinitely more calming influence who had stopped Enjolras from doing stupid shit on too many occasions. 

He learnt about Feuilly, the older wizard that Enjolras had always admired, and Bahorel, who kept conversation flowing even when things were awkward. About Joly, the hypochondriac absolutely dead set on becoming a healer, about Bossuet, who had the worst luck but managed to make a joke of it, about Musichetta, whose laugh was always infectious. He learnt of Marius, who was a bit of a dolt but somehow managed to stumble through life, of sweet Cosette who put up with Marius's shit with a smile. He learnt of Jehan, the dreamy poet who seemed to perpetually live in summer and of Éponine, who had been through a lot of shit but whose heart was still so open.

By the end of it, Grantaire was filled with almost as much longing to actually meet these people as Enjolras had to get back to them. Maybe it was just Enjolras's infectious affection, but nevertheless his friends genuinely seemed like great people. It made him acutely aware of his own isolation in his little northern village where he had one close friend and not much else. Enjolras's group sounded colourful and eclectic and exactly the kind of people Grantaire would get along with.

"So, you all went to school together?"

Enjolras nodded. "Back in France, we all attended the same magical school, Beauxbatons." He pronounced the name of the school softly, his French accent becoming more pronounced. "I left two and a half years ago, after my parents died and my legal guardian became my British uncle who was kind enough to take me in but only if I attended Hogwarts, the wizarding school here in the UK."

There was a silence, perhaps not awkward but definitely heavy. Finally, Grantaire said, "I'm sorry. About your parents. It must have been shit going through that when you were still in school. When my mother died it was absolute hell. I was so close with her, and I've only grown even more and more distant to my dad since she passed away."

Enjolras regarded him for a moment, as if unsure what to say. "I was never exactly close with my parents. We're from an old pureblood family, and they were pretty traditional. They already didn't like my rather radical ideals and abundance of halfblood and muggle born friends, and when I mentioned that I'm gay they were horrified that their pureblood wouldn't pass onto the next generation or similar bullshit. The saddest part was leaving my friends in France to come to Hogwarts, though I'm glad I did so I could be a part of this war and do my bit." He looked at the ground, and then back at Grantaire. "I wish I had a parent who I loved enough to miss, for their deaths to be hell to me."

Silence once again descended on them, but this time companionable. Hearing out loud that Enjolras was gay would have at any other time sent his heart racing with possibilities that would never come to pass, but the moment was solemnised by the discussion of dead parents. Without fully comprehending what he was doing, Grantaire reached out and took Enjolras's hand in his own. His skin was warm and rough, the physical contact grounding.

They sat for a while, hands entwined, ruminating on lost parents and lost friends, and new things to discover.

* * *

 

In the next town they passed through, they picked up a radio.

They'd been on the road for a few weeks now, and had taken to trading stories over the fireplace or arguing about both the trivial and the important. If he was honest, Grantaire felt most alive when he managed to spark that anger and passion in Enjolras that had drawn him in in the first place, and every time he could slowly feel himself slipping slowly more into the feeling surrounding the fiery blond that he couldn't quite place but he knew was extremely important.

Naturally, they argued about the radio too. Enjolras insisted that they have it on constantly to try and get into the Potterwatch channel. 

"I've been on Potterwatch, I'm friends with Lee Jordan, who runs it. It's absolutely the perfect way to contact Les Amis."

Potterwatch, it turned out, was a radio show used to give news to people against Voldemort about how the fight was going. And whilst Grantaire did think that was a great idea, it was the constant static noise that emanated from the damn contraption that he couldn't stand and argued with Enjolras about. He hadn't managed to work out the password to actually listen to the show, so instead spent half the time tampering with it.

One blustery evening, Grantaire had had enough of it. He swore that even his dreams were filled with static noise at this point, which was enough to drive any man crazy. Plus, he couldn't concentrate; despite being uprooted suddenly he was still keeping up with his sketching, keeping up practicing for art school. He's blushed when Enjolras had asked him what he was drawing so often as he didn't want to admit that his sketch book lately had been filled mostly of the blond himself, along with some sketches and visualisations of magic. 

"Look, Enjolras," he said, his tone unintentionally exasperated. "Can you knock it off, at least for tonight. Can we either find a normal station to listen to or switch it off entirely?"

He was expecting an argument, but Enjolras actually switched it over to a station that wasn't constant static. Grantaire gave him a surprised look; he hadn't expected him to be so compliant. Enjolras only shrugged. "Yeah, okay, it is pretty annoying," he muttered, which earned him a laugh from Grantaire, who could tell that admitting that he was wrong was probably akin to dying in Enjolras's mind. 

He'd switched it to a normal, or muggle as Enjolras would have called it, station. The radio host was talking, but quickly a song began to play. It wasn't one that he knew, something slow but moving, about a train. The song, though, wasn't what mattered. Grantaire was more preoccupied with Enjolras and his expression, his look of wonder.

"I never listen to muggle music," he said.

"What quantifies wizard music as different to muggle music?" Grantaire said with a smile. "Does wizard music have magical notes or something?"

Enjolras shrugged. "Nothing, really. The wizarding community is just weirdly segregated from the rest of the world on random things. In America it only became legal for a wizard to marry a muggle a couple of decades ago. It feels, sometimes, that we're so far away from your world, especially for those of us whose entire family are wizards."

"Don't you think that's kinda stupid? And alienating?" He knew that this was entering into deeper realms of conversation than music, but he was genuinely curious as to what Enjolras would say. "Maybe it's perpetuating the kind of attitudes that has led to this war. Mass feelings of superiority have to begin somewhere, after all."

Enjolras was looking at him curiously and intently, perhaps more intently than he'd ever looked at Grantaire. He felt like he was being examined, as if Enjolras was seeing him for the first time. "Maybe wizarding society needs a revolution after all."

He knew it had been creeping up on him, knew in his bones that this was inevitable, but the soft look that Enjolras was giving him, made him stomach drop. He was absolutely floored all of a sudden by the utter adoration that had been building up for him. Enjolras was perfect and passionate, full of life and inspired. He was the opposite to Grantaire in so many ways, but that just made him pine even more.

And he knew, in that moment, that despite being a lowly muggle to Enjolras's magic, he'd follow this man to revolution. He might not care or believe or even live in the same world as him, but he would follow him regardless.

It wasn't reasonable, but Grantaire had never been very reasonable. And so, with the lulling beat of that song about the train still playing in the background, Grantaire smiled at him and said, "Maybe."

* * *

 

"Wait, so you're saying your school was like, an actual castle?"

It was a cold night, and they had a fire crackling between them. The stars were bright though, and after having drank half a bottle of whiskey Grantaire was feeling looser, if not a tad tipsy. Spending nearly constant amounts of time with Enjolras meant that there were long periods when they didn't talk to each other. A lot of the times they did talk, they argued or ranted at each other. But now, something about the atmosphere of the night had led to easy, light conversation, where they both smiled and laughed and Grantaire's chest felt light. He couldn't deny that he was fascinated by even the small details of his life and all the magic that was so integrated in it. It was so far off his small, village lifestyle, where he'd gone to a half falling down state school.

"Maybe," Enjolras said, his voice lilting with humour. "It's historic. Although I kept getting lost my first week there, since everyone else in my year knew where they were going and I didn't. Plus the stairs move."

"The stairs fucking move? God, my drunk arse would fall down them all the time."

Enjolras smiled at him, and Grantaire couldn't deny that his heart fluttered a little in his chest. "It's weird to imagine you at Hogwarts; I feel like you'd simultaneously fit right in and stand out like a sore thumb. I wonder what house you'd be in."

"House?" His vaguely shitty school hadn't been posh enough for houses.

"Yeah, we had four houses named after our four founders. Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, each one for different aspects of people's personality and values. In crude terms, Gryffindor is bravery and valour, Slytherin is ambition and resourcefulness, Hufflepuff is loyalty and hard work and Ravenclaw is intelligence and wit."

Grantaire nearly asked how the school could possibly determine which house a kid should go in before he remembered:  _magic._

 _"_ Let me guess, you were in Gryffindor." Bravery and valour seemed to suit Enjolras completely.

Enjolras grinned. "You got me. Although, the Sorting Hat was very divided between Gryffindor and Slytherin for me. I genuinely think what swayed it was my natural affinity for the colour red, which is the house colour for Gryffindor. I don't think I would have suited green."

"Hey," said Grantaire, gesturing to his green jumper. "Don't talk too much shit about green. Green's my favourite colour."

They shared a smile, and Grantaire felt so right; the easy conversation and the stars glittering down on them and the cool wind against his cheeks but the warm fire on his fingertips. He never wanted it to end.

"I'm glad I got put in Gryffindor, anyway. It meant that I could make some really great friends who were already rebelling, already on the right side."

"Let me guess, that leader guy. Harry Potter? You were friends with him?" It would not surprise Grantaire whatsoever to learn that Enjolras had attracted the attention of the leader of the rebellion, of the Chosen One. He would almost be disappointed if he hadn't.

"Yes, I guess." Grantaire thought that he detected a slight blush on those high cheekbones. "The year I joined Hogwarts was the year Harry Potter and his friends set up a group called Dumbledore's Army, with Harry leading it and teaching us how to defend ourselves against the dark arts. It was odd at first, because I guess I was so used to taking the lead with Les Amis. But Harry was truly inspiring. He's lived through some absolute shit, fought against You-Know-Who himself when he was eleven years old, and he still managed to be a great leader, and a great friend."

"Oh my god," said Grantaire, a laugh bubbling its way up his chest. "You had a crush on him, didn't you?"

Enjolras's spluttering was all that Grantaire needed for confirmation, and he let the laugh out, truly amused. It felt so good to sit here with Enjolras and just laugh and joke, like actual friends. 

"Okay, so I may have been briefly," began Enjolras, catching Grantaire's eye and giving him a glare. " _Briefly_ enamoured with him. Briefly. Anyways, he's almost painfully straight and spent most of my first year there crushing on a girl named Cho Chang, and then the second a girl named Ginny Weasley. I got over it pretty quickly and learnt to admire him as a friend."

Grantaire grinned. "It's a bit of a cliché though, to fall for the charismatic leader, the source of inspiration," he said, extremely aware of how hypocritical it was for him to say that when he'd essentially done exactly the same thing with Enjolras.

Enjolras laughed a little, his laugh which was rare but as beautiful as he was. "Cliché or not, it did not last," Enjolras said emphatically. "Besides, Harry was never exactly a charismatic leader. He was a great teacher and he's the Chosen One and all that, but he didn't even rally Dumbledore's Army together himself. That was all due to his friend, Hermione Granger, who is probably the person I miss most from Hogwarts, though I can assure you I didn’t have a crush on her for obvious reasons." He smiled to himself, clearly remembering something fondly. "She is perhaps one of the most passionate and feisty people I have met, as well as one of the most intelligent. The year before I got there she had started a group called S.P.E.W to protect house-elves, an issue that no one was talking about or even cared about, and despite the fact that pretty much everyone shunned her for it she carried on anyway. I always admired her for it; she was one of my closest friends in the two years I was there."

"She sounds a bit like a female version of you," said Grantaire. He wondered what the two of them had been like together. Unstoppable was the word that instantly came to mind.

"I suppose you could say that. If anything, it would have been cliché to fall for her. Ron Weasley, Harry and Hermione's best friend who definitely did have a crush on her, hated me inexplicably for about six months until he realised I'm gay and have no interest in her romantically."

Grantaire couldn't help but be reminded of his own cliché crush on Enjolras; hearing him talk about who he had and hadn't been romantically attracted to was all of a sudden a bit too much to handle. He found himself abruptly changing the topic, steering it away from crushes and clichés, mostly to make himself try to forget his own woes.

"So, what house do you think I'd be in then? Use your magical skills or whatever to determine my personality. I somehow doubt I'd be in Gryffindor with you and your mates."

If he was surprised by the sudden topic change, he didn't show it. "R, you forget that I've spent the last few weeks in your presence 24/7. I don't need any magic to know your personality." But he hesitated before actually giving his opinion, pondering for a moment. As with everything, he seemed to be thoroughly thinking about it rather than just throwing out a random answer like Grantaire would have done. "I genuinely think Ravenclaw."

"Wait, is that the intelligent one? You're kidding, right? You do realise I'm an artist, not a scientist or whatever."

"Sure, but art is a form of intelligence. God, R, you wax poetic about classics and mythology, about art movements and brush techniques. You talk intelligently with me about the politics of a world that you're not even a  _part_ of. Sure, you argue with me and are possibly the most stubborn person I know, but you're also smart and pick up things so quickly. So yeah, I think you'd be in Ravenclaw."

Compliments like that were not a thing Grantaire received often; in fact, he couldn't even remember the last time someone had said something so genuinely nice about him. It stunned him, left him not really knowing what to say. The fact that  _Enjolras_ thought that he was intelligent and not just a worthless drunk struck a chord somewhere deep within him. A rebellious part of him wanted desperately to lean over and kiss Enjolras, to convey what he felt in a way that words can't. He was having more and more trouble reigning in that rebellious part of him that was so enamoured by Enjolras and actually wanted to do something about it lately, not content to just let him pine like the rest of him. 

"Enjolras," he managed to get out, but before he could say any more he felt the temperature drop very suddenly. Whereas he had been mildly cold before, he was now shivering, his breath coming out in puffs of steam. Enjolras definitely noticed this too; he'd drawn his wand without any hesitation and leapt up, his whole body wired for impending danger.

The wind was howling in his ears, and there was a tense, ominous mood that hadn’t been here ten seconds ago. There had to be somethings magical going on here, something that he didn't quite understand. "Grantaire," Enjolras murmured, his voice soft and cautious. "Grantaire, get behind me."

He saw it as soon as he started moving, a cloaked figure drifting above the ground and through the trees. It moved with eerie silence, bringing with it a dark sense of dread that pooled in the pit of Grantaire's stomach. The happy atmosphere he'd been enjoying so much had been sucked from the air with the presence of this figure, leaving behind only pain and dread and fear. It got closer, close enough to tower above Grantaire, its skeletal figure cloaked and foreboding and its face still obscure. He didn't know what it was, but it was bringing awful feelings to the forefront of Grantaire's mind; thoughts of his mother dying, of his father telling him that he wasn't good enough, of feeling worthless, of the dread accumulating at having to lose Enjolras and the magic that accompanied him soon. 

But Enjolras was in front of him in a flash of red, brandishing his wand and shouting "Expecto Patronum!"

There was a flash of silver, and then an ethereal, silvery lioness was standing between them and the creature, radiating silver energy that seemed to be teeming with happiness and positivity. It was counteracting the horrible, cold feeling that had spread through him before, and the creature was flinching away. It was gone in a few moments, repelled by the lioness that was standing protective of Enjolras and Grantaire. 

Finally, the light emanating from Enjolras's wand faded, and then it was just the two of them in their little camp again. Grantaire hadn't noticed how much he'd been shivering, but now he couldn't seem to stop shaking; he was so totally confused but also shaken by what had just happened. 

Before he knew what was happening, Enjolras's arms were around him, his embrace tight and warm to counteract the cold, hollow feeling that was stuck in him. The fact that it was Enjolras, the man he'd definitely been pining after for the last few weeks, wasn't even on the top of his mind. He was just glad of the physical contact, of the human connection. 

"What the fuck was that thing?" He finally asked into Enjolras's shoulder, when his shaking had calmed down a bit and his heart rate had ceased to shudder through him so violently.

They pulled apart, and Grantaire could see the hurt and anger at what had happened on his face. "It's called a Dementor. They feed off happiness, create darkness and despair wherever they go. They're easily one of the foulest, most horrendous magical creature to encounter, and they've sided with You-Know-Who. God, I wish we'd met a Death Eater rather than one of them, I'm so sorry Grantaire."

Enjolras seemed genuinely distressed, but not just because of seeing and fighting off the Dementor, but that Grantaire had had to experience it. That level of emotion towards him from Enjolras came as a bit of a shock, but he decided that he didn't particularly want to question it.

"It's okay," he said reflexively, even though he was clearly still shaken. He desperately wanted to change the subject though; he wasn't sure that he could stand Enjolras openly worrying about him. "What was the lion thing? It didn't look like your normal magic."

"It's called a patronus charm. It's the only thing that can ward off a dementor and takes the form of an animal made from happy memories to counteract its darkness."

"What memories did you use?" Maybe it was too personal a question, but Grantaire was curious; the lioness emanated such strength and light in contrast to the dementor and it astounded him that Enjolras had made that, had combated it with a spell and his own memories. It had a different feel to the spells he normally used, which required nothing more than a flick of the wand and some vaguely Latin sounding phrases. This charm had had an essence of Enjolras himself in it.

"A memory of Les Amis in one of our meetings back at Beauxbatons. The first time we got the school to change one of the backwards rules about gender." Grantaire should probably have predicted it; of course the things that made him the happiest were his friends and social justice combined.

But Enjolras carried on, looking a little embarrassed, which wasn't something Grantaire ever thought he would see on him. "And, well, this time I thought of you as well. Of quiet nights spent talking, getting to know you better. It all kind of mingled to produce the patronus."

Shock didn't even begin to describe what Grantaire felt in that moment. "You're kidding, right?"

"Why would I kid?" 

"I...I just don't see how your memories of camping in the middle of nowhere with only me for company could be happy for you. Could ever live up to the friends you have, to the literal magic that you live with." It was unfathomable to Grantaire; whilst spending this time with Enjolras was amazing for him, he'd always felt like a burden to Enjolras, someone who he was with only because it's slightly better than being alone.

"Grantaire," said Enjolras, his voice more forceful now. "You're funny, opinionated, easy to talk to, and so different from me it's refreshing. Am I not allowed to enjoy your company all of a sudden?"

Enjolras complimenting him was still such a foreign sensation; he didn't really know what to do with all of this praise. "What is this, compliment Grantaire day?" 

Perhaps sarcasm wasn't the way to proceed with this conversation, but it was the way which Grantaire knew best, to shield himself from having to confront the multitude of emotions he had surrounding Enjolras. 

"Why can't you accept it? That I like spending time with you?" Enjolras's voice was tinged with anger, the voice that he used when an argument was brewing. 

All of a sudden, Grantaire was really tired of this. He was always willing to rile up Enjolras, to see that passion flood out, but now he wished that this conversation would just end; he didn't think he could handle more compliments from Enjolras. It sent too much misplaced hope flooding into his besotted heart and made his already painful pining even more so. 

It was probably this odd mix of emotions that led to him snapping, "No, because why on Earth would you of all people do more than just put up with me? You're perfect; charismatic, eloquent, passionate, and you have fucking magic to top it all off. What could you possibly want with a  _Muggle_ like me, a drunk, a cynic, a man who barely believes in what you do and is only sticking around because he believes in you. Someone who--"

He was cut off by Enjolras's hand encircling his arm, the warmth of the contact startling him. His grip was firm but soft, just like his words as he said, "Grantaire." Hearing his name in Enjolras's voice, steady and grounding, made Grantaire's heart begin to thump even faster than before. "R.  _You are not worthless."_

His words had utter conviction behind them; Enjolras genuinely believed what he was saying. Grantaire was stumped, with no idea how to respond without saying something he might regret. 

He found he didn't have to offer a response, though. He'd barely opened his mouth when all of a sudden Enjolras's lips were on his, those soft lips that he'd been dreaming about kissing for weeks. His brain temporarily short-circuited; he couldn't quite believe that this was actually happening to him. His mind was racing, running away with the possibilities of what this meant, but his body had gone rigid, not because the kiss was at all bad or unwanted but because it was so surprising that he didn't know what to do.

Enjolras pulled away quickly. "I'm sorry, I--" He sounded frazzled, which was unusual for Enjolras, the most put-together man Grantaire had ever met. "I just couldn't let you believe that I don't like you. I'm sorry if I overstepped my boundaries..."

At this, Grantaire laughed at the absurdity of the whole situation, at the fact that Enjolras genuinely thought that the kiss was something that Grantaire hadn't wanted, when in fact it was entirely the opposite. "Enjolras," he said, and then because he didn't know what words could possibly be effective, he pulled Enjolras back towards him and kissed him properly this time.

It was everything Grantaire had fantasized about and more, the way Enjolras's lips moved against his, hesitant at first but when his hands reached up to tangle in Enjolras's hair he felt Enjolras sigh against his mouth and deepen the kiss. It was undeniably clumsy and imperfect, and Grantaire could practically feel Enjolras's lack of experience, but it still felt electric, in a way that was probably far too cliché but true, in a way that Grantaire hadn't really experienced before with his short flings and quick, frenzied make out sessions while pissed. This was slower, and more grounding; he was hyperaware of every movement Enjolras made, of how his hands skimmed over Grantaire's back, his waist, finally settling on the back of his neck and sending floods of heat washing through him. It was absolutely too good to be true, but even the cynic within him couldn't deny that this was happening, that it was real, that the kiss was just as enthusiastic from Enjolras as it was from him. 

When they finally pulled apart, breathing heavily, Grantaire couldn't help but note Enjolras's kiss-swollen lips, his hair ruffled and out of place, his damn red coat askew on his shoulders. Something caved in his chest as he realised that somewhere along the line he'd begun to think of Enjolras as this unnattainable god-like figure, this perfect paradigm of justice and truth that sat above mere humans. But when Enjolras grinned at him, this illusion he'd been maintaining shattered completely as he understood that Enjolras was only human; he didn't deserve to be put on some sort of pedestal. He was human, he was imperfect, he made mistakes and got separated from his friends and cursed himself for it, he'd had a teenage crush on the Chosen One, he kissed clumsily but without caring about it because he was too enthusiastic. All this time, Grantaire had thought that he'd been falling for Enjolras because he'd idolised him, because he'd thought he was perfect, but as he stood so close to him that he could hear his heart racing, as his thumb brushed over Grantaire's cheek in an impossibly tender way, he realised that it was actually Enjolras's flaws that he should have been falling for. Because that made them a lot more equal, more level with each other, made Enjolras actually attainable for him.

"I suppose you actually do like me. Just a little bit," he murmured, his lips still so close to Enjolras's that he was practically talking into them. It earnt him a laugh, that laugh that reminded him of pure gold, and hearing Enjolras laugh because of him made him smile a little.

"I somehow have a suspicion that you like me a little bit too," he replied, smiling back. Like felt like such a tame word to describe the swirling mass of feelings that Enjolras evoked in him, but it would do for now.

For now, Grantaire smiled back and said, "Whatever gave you that impression" before leaning forwards to kiss Enjolras again, still in absolute disbelief that that was now a thing which he could do. 

And despite the cold, foul presence of the Dementor still stuck somewhere in his head, this was the happiest Grantaire had felt in such a long time. He wondered, as Enjolras deepened their kiss, if this would be one of the memories he used the next time he produced a Patronus charm, because despite the complete lack of magic in his blood he couldn't imagine anything more powerful than this delirious feeling of something new and hopeful and raw blossoming in his chest with every kiss.


	2. deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i'm back! we get to meet les amis in this chapter, and i hope i managed to do their dynamic justice; i just really love this bunch of revolutionary idiots far too damn much  
> let me know what you think, feedback actually gives me life

Their relationship shifted quickly after that night, and though they never really put it into words, Grantaire found himself wondering if they were dating now. The soft touches, the kisses in the moonlight all seemed to point so, but Grantaire's heart flipped every time he vaguely thought of Enjolras as his  _boyfriend._ It seemed incongruous to him that he'd somehow ended up with the man he'd been pining after, but maybe Enjolras was teaching him that he deserved it. 

On one particularly cold night, Enjolras finally cracked the password for Potterwatch. Grantaire, who'd managed to pick up a bottle of wine from the last shop they'd been near, was happily sipping it straight from the bottle, which was earning him a disapproving look from Enjolras. He had offered the blond some, to which he'd replied that he only drank butterbeer, whatever the hell that was. He'd just about managed to tune out the static emanating from the radio by this point, so it was Enjolras's triumphant cry that alerted him to the fact that actual voices were now blaring out.

They seem to have caught the broadcast towards the end, because the voices were signing off. "We here on Potterwatch remind our listeners, not that they probably need reminding, that they laying low and keeping to themselves is probably the best strategy at the moment. The reports related earlier about Death Eaters storming Muggle villages should be enough of a warning as to how dangerous our current climate is." Grantaire watched as Enjolras's face changed, as the words settled over him like a punch to the gut. When it was just the two of them sitting around a fire, it was easy to forget that there was a literal war raging on through Great Britain, that the danger was very, very real. 

"And finally, before we end this broadcast, tune in next time with the password 'Prongs' at 8pm on Tuesday. Oh, and to Apollo, if you're listening, Les Amis are still waiting for you at  _l'endroit avec des falaises abruptes._ As always, I apologise for my total butchery of French, so if you don't want to hear me murder another French phrase Apollo, you should really get your arse back to your mates. Now, thank you from everyone here at Potterwatch, and goodnight."

Enjolras was a tad dumbstruck, but his face went from surprised to excited extremely fast. "They're waiting for me." It was possibly the least eloquent sentence that had come out of Enjolras's mouth.

Grantaire, however, was hung up by a completely different thing. 

"Your codename is Apollo?" He asked in a teasing tone. It certainly fit Enjolras, who upon first glance had that distance and elevation of a Greek god and was undeniably as fiery as the sun god himself. But it did shock him that Enjolras used the name himself; it seemed like the kind of thing he himself would think up in his daily musings of Enjolras and his nature. 

Blushing slightly, Enjolras said, "It wasn't my idea. I wanted to be called Red, but Jehan complained that it was too boring and told Lee Jordan to call me Apollo the first time we ran Potterwatch and it's kinda just stuck."

"I think it suits you, Apollo," he teased, which earned him a playful shove from Enjolras. "So what’s the place with steep cliffs? Could be virtually anywhere in the UK to be honest."

Enjolras grinned at the memory. "In the first week that all of Les Amis were here in the UK, we ended up in the Peak District, and because he's a bit of an idiot, Courfeyrac was too busy chatting to look where he was going that he literally nearly fell off a cliff. Combeferre had to pull a pretty strong floating charm to keep him from tumbling to his death."

As always, Grantaire loved seeing Enjolras talk so fondly about his friends, but there was a part of him that was clanging with nerves. Enjolras had said that he could keep him company until he found his friends again, but now that so much had changed between them that he didn't know what was going to happen. He couldn't imagine just leaving Enjolras now, going back to village life. Not only would he be losing magic and excitement and intrigue, the things that had made him want to go with him in the first place, but now after all these weeks the thing he couldn't bear to part with was Enjolras himself. Their budding relationship was hands down the best thing that had ever happened to Grantaire and he wasn't really prepared to lose it.

Enjolras could probably see this worry on his face, because all of a sudden, his hand was grasping Grantaire's. "R, you do know that you're absolutely allowed to come with me. Until this war begins getting really dangerous, I want you by my side." The bold statement made Enjolras blush a bit as if he wasn't quite sure where it came from; it was odd that he was so bold and even blunt when talking about magic or politics or both but when it came to their relationship, apart from the first night, he was a lot more hesitant in what he said. "Unless, of course, you want to go home. I don't want to force you to uproot your life just for me."

He responded with a soft kiss to his lips, a reassurance that yes, he definitely wanted to carry on being with Enjolras. "Enjolras, you know I was bored out of my mind back home. I want to be with you, not just because you're a wizard or whatever. And I want to meet your friends who you bang on about all the fucking time."

Enjolras grinned, as if heaving a sigh of relief. "You're going to get along so well with Les Amis. Though I am worried that you'll end up liking them more than me."

"Somehow I doubt that, Apollo." His use of the nickname made Enjolras roll his eyes, but at least they were on the same page again. 

They gathered up their things, which essentially consisted of a few changes of clothes they'd accumulated, their tent and Grantaire's sketch book. Grantaire was nervous when Enjolras took his hand, mainly because the prospect of meeting the friends he'd heard so much about and built up such expectations of.

The lurching sensation of apparating was familiar to him by now, and suddenly they were in the place with the steep cliffs.

* * *

 

When they were confronted with nothing but more countryside, Grantaire was confused, but upon noticing this, Enjolras whispered to him, "They will have the same wards as we had up. But hopefully they can see us and will take them down." His voice was excited, and it was infectious.

As if a veil was being lifted from his eyes, the scene before them changed from simply another patch of English countryside into what could be described as none other than a campsite, with various tents and people all staring at him and Enjolras. 

"Enjolras!" exclaimed someone, though Grantaire wasn't sure who. Before he knew what was happening, Enjolras's hand was knocked from his by a short guy with light brown skin and far too much energy hugging Enjolras and kissing him on the cheek; Grantaire wasn't sure if he should feel offended by this as Enjolras's probable-boyfriend until he remembered that they were French. 

His face was so bright, and it made Grantaire smile a little just looking at him, although he did feel extremely awkward just standing there watching their heartfelt reunion. "Coucou, Courfeyrac," he said, his voice full of laughter.

Another boy with thick framed glasses, dark skin and thick curly hair had also approached when Courfeyrac had stepped back a little, smiling almost as wide as Enjolras. " _It took you long enough to get our message_ , Enjolras." It took Grantaire a few seconds to adjust to the rapid-fire French, but he managed to follow.

" _Well, you try being stranded in the middle of nowhere without your friends and not knowing the_ _Potterwatch_ _password._ " His tone was scolding but he was smiling, and he gave him a manly half-hug-half-clap-on-the-back thing.

The others had come over by this point, presumably happy to see Enjolras but also confused by Grantaire's presence. There were so many new faces that he felt a bit overwhelmed, but these were Enjolras's friends and once he could connect their faces to the names he had been hearing so much about he knew he would relax a little more. 

" _And who is this?"_ Asked Courfeyrac, gesturing wildly to Grantaire, who could now feel the power of a dozen pairs of eyes staring at him. He wished that he had a drink to alleviate some of the awkwardness; the effects of the wine he'd drank so long ago had worn off already.

"This," Enjolras said, switching to English, "is Grantaire. He's..." He trailed off, as if suddenly aware that he and Grantaire hadn't exactly categorised their relationship since the night with the dementor.

"We're friends," Grantaire quickly blurted out, feeling as if this was a safe option. Evidently, it was exactly the wrong thing to say as the look Enjolras gave him was somewhere between hurt and glaring. "Sort of," he tried to amend. "I mean, maybe more, I--"

"He's my boyfriend," Enjolras said, cutting into Grantaire's stuttered ramblings. Grantaire could feel his cheeks going hotter and redder, because of course Enjolras decides that now, in front of all these people, is the time to define their relationship. He was nothing if not dramatic. Grantaire kind of wanted to die, but also kind of wanted to kiss him.

He could practically feel the shock of Enjolras's friends emanating from them, and one of them, a redhead with the most hideous yellow robe and floral t-shirt on, said in more heavily accented English than Enjolras's, "Where on Earth did you manage to find a boyfriend in the middle of the war?"

Courfeyrac snorted a little. "To be honest, only Enjolras could manage it."

The mention of the war seemed to sober everyone for a moment. The guy with the glasses, who Grantaire suspected was Combeferre from Enjolras's descriptions, said, "Have you run into any trouble? We were all so worried when you got separated from us that you could have been killed by a Death Eater and we wouldn't even know it."

"Well, the Death Eater who led to us getting separated caused a bit of trouble, but I handled it."

"I think you mean I handled it," interjected Grantaire, not about to let Enjolras take credit just to make him look better in front of his friends. "I'm the one who punched him in the face and knocked him out."

"Okay, sure, Grantaire handled it." Enjolras said, giving Grantaire a wry smirk. "Other than that, we ran into a lone dementor, although I definitely handled it that time."

A cold tingle ran through him at the memory of the dementor's presence, but he brushed it off quickly. "You're the wizard. If I can't punch it, I'll leave it for you to deal with."

His words were intended to be casual, not really thinking about what he was saying, but a ripple of shock radiated through the group. "Wait," said someone, an Indian boy with wavy hair and what seemed to be a permanent dazed expression. "Are you a muggle? How did you end up tangled up in this mess?"

" _Marius,"_ hissed a pretty girl with chestnut coloured hair and rosy cheeks, taking his arm as if she had to physically restrain him from saying anything else without thinking.

For some reason, when considering meeting Enjolras's friends it hadn't registered that they might find it odd that he had no magic like the rest of them (a muggle as Marius had pointed out). When he was around Enjolras, it actually didn't seem like a big deal or like there was any gap between them; Enjolras entertained his fascination with magic and this world that he hadn't known existed but equally Enjolras seemed fascinated with his disgustingly mundane life, with his hobbies, his art. But now, he was faced with an actual group of wizards and witches, not just the one he had grown used to dealing with. Clearly they weren't bigoted if they were Enjolras's friends, but it was still strange when he considered how he had somehow ended up in this situation.

"Yeah, I am a muggle, or whatever. I don't have any magic, beyond my charming wit that masks my bleak cynicism." That earned him a couple of smiles, setting him at ease a little; he supposed sarcasm was a language spoken across muggles and wizards. "To be honest, I don't really know how I convinced Enjolras to let me come with him"

Enjolras smiled at him at that, a small smile but it still made Grantaire feel a little brighter.

"Oh my god, Enjolras," said Courfeyrac, grinning. "You are so whipped,  _mon ami."_

* * *

 

After he had been introduced to everyone, Grantaire found that Enjolras had been right: he did get on really well with them all, with their welcoming and chilled group dynamic. They were all extremely interested in how him and Enjolras had gotten together, a feat which Grantaire still wasn't sure how he achieved himself. 

"So we're boyfriends now?" Grantaire had asked that night, after Enjolras had thoroughly caught up with his friends and people had gone back to various tents. 

For once, Enjolras looked a little nervous. "Sorry, I mean, if you want to be. I didn't intend to just declare it or whatever, but I guess I got carried away in the moment when I heard you call us just friends."

Grantaire shut him up with a kiss, slow and soft. Enjolras smiled beneath his lips, pulling him closer into the steady rhythm of their lips moving against each other. 

When they broke apart, Grantaire whispered, "I think you'd be an idiot if you didn't realise how much I like you. So obviously I want to be your boyfriend."

Enjolras smiled, a private smile that Grantaire felt absolutely privileged to share and took his hand. They sat like that for a while, knee to knee with their fingers entwined, looking over at the fire and the tents around it in companionable silence.

"This war feels so much more real now," said Enjolras softly after a while. "It's like when I'm with just you I can let it feel distant but being back here and hearing Combeferre talk about what has been happening in the wizarding world has made it so much clear and real. I just feel like something major is going to happen soon, that all this planning and hiding and uncertainty has to come to an end soon and that the real action is just beginning."

Grantaire squeezed his fingers; it wasn't usually this way round, with Enjolras seeking reassurance. He was always so confident, so absolutely willing to give everything, so fiery about the war and the cause that sometimes Grantaire thought he'd burn himself up with it. But now, in the quiet of the night he was looking at the tents of the friends he'd just gained again, and he seemed unsure and almost scared, as if he was remembering just what was at stake, what could so easily be lost. 

"Have you ever considered just going back? Taking Les Amis back to France and letting the war here be fought by the British wizards?"

It was a deliberately baiting question, and Grantaire knew exactly what Enjolras's answer was going to be. He was looking askance at Grantaire, vaguely offended at his suggestion. "Never. I would absolutely never do that."

"Because you're you. As much as I don't get it, rushing off into danger and war, as much as I'm probably going to try to talk you out of it, I know I'm never going to be able to because you're probably the most stubbornly passionate man I have ever met. So I guess we're all going to have to wait it out and see what happens."

Enjolras grinned, the sombre moment decidedly over. Grantaire supposed that he didn't want to think too much about what might come and the danger it posed. "Stubbornly passionate? Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"Even I can't tell."

Everything from then on had a slightly unsettling sense of the calm before the storm feel to it. Grantaire was stuck somewhere between this sense of dread at what might await but also genuinely enjoying getting to know Les Amis de l'ABC. He got on extremely well with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, who were nearly always willing to drink with him and laugh at his terrible jokes, he exchanged snarky quips with Éponine, he chatted about mythology with Jehan, he play-fought with Bahorel and he teamed up with Feuilly, who was muggle-born, to amaze Marius with random facts about the muggle world.

It was Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre that held the group together; Courfeyrac who had the ability to make conversation with anyone at any time about anything, Combeferre who was the logic behind everything and Enjolras who was unsurprisingly the leader of it all.

One night, Les Amis were conducting some sort of meeting, deciding what to do next, where to apparate, updating about the war effort. Somehow Grantaire ended up arguing with Enjolras; he found himself challenging what he was saying out of pure habit and revelled in seeing Enjolras's passionate side come out, all hand gestures and fiery eye contact.

"Are you sure you're even going out?" asked Jehan afterwards, when the meeting had essentially devolved into smaller conversations, including Enjolras and Combeferre discussing something in even further detail and a group of them passing a bottle of firewhiskey around. Naturally, Grantaire had gravitated towards that conversation. "You seem to rile him up pretty well."

Grantaire shrugged, smiling a little. "I guess that just kinda how we've been for the last couple of months. We have intense arguments, debates about literally everything. We agree on a lot of fundamental things, but it's fascinating to pick apart Enjolras's viewpoint and see where he goes."

Joly, who was dating both Bossuet and Musichetta and was unapologetically mushy and loving towards both of them nearly all of the time, looked vaguely shocked that a relationship could be the polar opposite of his own. "Your idea of a fun time is arguing with your boyfriend? Bossuet, Chetta, we aren't taking relationship advice from R."

Musichetta just laughed and kissed Joly on the cheek whilst still holding Bossuet's hand, affirming their overly-gooey nature. It was odd to see three people in a romantic relationship, but Grantaire couldn't deny that they were all so in love with each other that he couldn't imagine it any other way even after spending a relatively short time with them.

"So how did you get together with Enjolras then? If you started off just arguing?" asked Jehan, taking the bottle from Grantaire's hands and taking a swig. After spending so long with the ever sober Enjolras it was nice to have a more social drinking environment, although a part of him was aware that he was always in danger of excess.

"Fuck me if I know, Prouvaire," he said and subtly checked that Enjolras wasn't around him. "But he's the best fucking thing that's even happened to me."

Éponine fake gagged as the others laughed. "I knew you were secretly a sap, R," said Musichetta.

Grantaire smiled and mused that whilst Enjolras was probably the singular best thing that had happened to him, the nest best was bringing him to meet this amazing group of people. The companionship and friendship that he felt as Enjolras's—Grantaire's friends laughed with him was the most magical thing he'd experienced so far.

* * *

 

The radio that Combeferre had kept for Enjolras while he'd been gone, turned out to be a magic radio, which honestly shouldn't have surprised Grantaire but still did. It let them essentially make phone calls to the guy who ran the show, Lee Jordan. Grantaire found this out the hard way when he was leaning back with the thing right next to his ear and a voice started blasting out despite the fact that it was switched off.

"Apollo," said Lee, scaring the shit of Grantaire and subsequently making Enjolras laugh a little, to which he responded with a withering glare. "Heard you're back with Les Amis and co."

"You heard correctly, River," said Enjolras, using Lee's codename and still laughing a little at Grantaire's affronted expression. 

"That's good to hear, man. Things are getting pretty dire, and I think Potterwatch listeners could do with some of your ineffable enthusiasm and sexy French accent to keep them going. What do you say about being on the next show?"

Enjolras grinned. "You know I can't say no to a motivational speech."

"Awesome. Next Tuesday, 6 o'clock. Apparate to us, we're in hiding place number one."

That appeared to be the end of the message, and Enjolras turned to Grantaire beaming. "You get excited about the weirdest shit," said Grantaire, to which Enjolras simply laughed.

The following Tuesday found Les Amis huddled around the radio, waiting for the broadcast to start. Enjolras had apparated away with a lingering kiss and a promise to be back. Grantaire hadn't realised until he was gone how weird it was to be so far away from Enjolras, to not know where he was or what he was doing, and the separation anxiety he felt was unexpectedly strong. It must have shown on his face because Combeferre looked sympathetically at him and said, "I know how you feel, after last time I kind of never want to let him out of my sight. But he'll be fine."

Not entirely sure if that was reassuring or not, Grantaire settled down with the rest of the group, waiting for 6 o'clock to come. Jehan and Feuilly were lightly bickering about the most ideal placement of the radio so that everyone could hear whilst everyone else rolled their eyes. When it was finally time for the broadcast to start, Courfeyrac nudged at Jehan's arm to stop the chatter, and spoke the password (Percival) into the little radio.

Lee Jordan's tinny voice came through the radio, introducing himself through the nickname River, and talking about what progress had been made in the last week or so of the war effort. Grantaire's heart dropped a little when one of his guests, a man who called himself Royal, began naming the list of people who had either been confirmed dead or who were missing; it was far too long. When the list extended to muggle families, to non-magical people like himself who had gotten swept up in this war and hurt because of it, it was almost too much to listen to. It really struck home how real this all was in a way that it was hard to when he was in the fantasy of being with Enjolras, that this hidden society warring with themselves affected the world Grantaire had grown up in as well as the one he'd been thrust into. There were sombre expressions on everyone's face and the lightheartedness that had uplifted the group not long ago was replaced with something heavy and unspeakable.

Before the broadcast got too depressing to listen to anymore, Lee's voice cut back in and said, "I know that the list is heavy this week, and that things are feeling tough at the moment, but I do have some good news. Our guest Apollo is back with us this week after his unexpected absence, and I'm sure he's excited to give some inspiration to lift all of our spirits. How are things from your perspective, Apollo?"

"Things do seem rough, River," said a familiar, French voice. "But it is vital to remember that things are not in vain. We may not know where Harry Potter is, but I believe sincerely and from every depth of my heart that whatever he is doing, he is doing it for the cause. I know it can be hard to believe that, but regardless of what other people are doing, it's important to remember that what you're doing counts too. Whether you're on the run, in hiding from Death Eaters, at Hogwarts or just staying at home out of danger, as long as you have belief in the cause there is hope.

"We fight for freedom, we fight for humanity, for wizardkind and muggles alike. We fight to make sure the world remains a place full of light and beauty, that the regime of the Chief Death Eater will never be fulfilled. In order to get through this seemingly endless struggle, I implore you to envision that there will come a time when this war will be over, when there will be no more need for hiding or running or fighting, when this country will be full of light and radiance and happiness and life. These struggles, the names of the dead, the ones of us who may die soon, it will all be worth it. Because there would be no point in carrying on otherwise; we all must fight for ourselves but most importantly for each other, for our friends and family and lovers and also for strangers, for everyone."

Enjolras's words struck Grantaire to the very core, because even through the shitty quality of the radio broadcast, he could hear his absolute conviction and passion in every single word. The  _power_ behind them blew him away, and it had been Enjolras's speeches that had initially won him over, the fiery, argumentative side that had made him fall for him. But as he sat there, hundreds of miles away with nothing but Enjolras's voice inspiring and rousing people to carry on fighting ringing in his head, it became so clear to him that this was it. That this level of feeling that he felt whenever Enjolras opened his mouth to talk wasn't something he had ever felt before and that he was unlikely to ever feel again. He was absolutely, wholly in love with Enjolras, to a degree that scared him a little; he realised that Enjolras roused a spark in him that he didn't even know existed, that he believed in this cause that really had nothing to do with him because of Enjolras, that he would follow Enjolras into the fucking pits of hell and not regret a single thing. 

And as if this realisation that he was in love with Enjolras wasn't enough, his speech kept on going.

"The Chief Death Eater seeks to tear us apart, to keep us divided so he can conquer the wizarding world, but I've realised something recently. He fights only for himself, for his selfish desire for power, but what he doesn't have is unity or love or that hope that comes from fighting not just for yourself but for something greater. I've spent a lot of time recently with someone who has helped me to see so clearly that whilst You-Know-Who is all about putting up boundaries, we should be tearing them down. Boundaries between wizards, between pureblood and halfblood and muggle-born, boundaries between wizards and muggles. We're all just humans looking out for each other and R has reminded me what it means to fight for a truly non-elitist future. And I look at him, at my friends, and I'm reminded why I'm fighting."

Grantaire was crying a little at this point, which was definitely embarrassing, but hearing Enjolras say that he had inspired him hit him hard. It was so easy to see Enjolras as the one who inspires others; his ineffable enthusiasm and natural leadership caused him to shine so brightly, but Grantaire hadn't even considered the possibility that Enjolras had somehow been inspired by him. He felt like he had done nothing except make snarky comments, and even though he had realised that Enjolras kind of loved the competition that Grantaire brought to his ideals because it allowed him to argue even more passionately, he hadn't realised that along the way he'd become part of Enjolras's reason to fight in the war.

He was so in love that it hurt, because Enjolras didn't just see him as a joker or a cynic and deep in his heart, that meant so much.

Once Enjolras had stopped speaking and Lee had started to announce other things about pals of Potter, Grantaire felt arms encircling him and turned to find that Courfeyrac was the one embracing him, his trademark grin beaming from his face. "He can be pretty good at the whole inspirational speech thins when he wants to, right?"

He even smiled back, feeling so warm. "Yeah, I guess so."

"He even managed to win over our resident cynic," called out Bossuet.

"Let's be real," countered Feuilly, "our resident cynic was always the one winning him over."

They split off after that, with Grantaire surreptitiously wiping his eyes and taking his leave back to his tent whilst most of the others stayed to listen to the rest of the broadcast. Every minute felt torturous while he waited; all he wanted to do in that moment was to kiss Enjolras silly. 

When the tent flap finally opened to reveal Enjolras in all his blond glory, Grantaire didn't hesitate before leaping up and pulling him close, their lips colliding. Enjolras seemed a little taken aback, but it only took a few seconds for him to reciprocate, matching Grantaire's enthusiasm. Kissing Enjolras still sent a lurching feeling of joy throughout his body, and with every kiss Enjolras seemed to get less clumsy and more precise in a slow, steady movement tongue against tongue, lips against lips. Grantaire lost himself in Enjolras's kisses, in his hands tangling through Enjolras's golden curls. 

Enjolras was the one who pulled away, laughing in the small space between their faces. "I'm guessing you liked the broadcast?"

"I loved it," said Grantaire, punctuating it with a kiss. "I love you," he found himself adding, the words out of his mouth before he could really consider them because now that it was so blindingly obvious to him the thing he'd been most excited about was telling Enjolras.

Enjolras froze, but only for a brief moment before he was laughing again and pulling Grantaire into another searing kiss, a kiss that seemed to say everything that Grantaire had dared dream about. It was slow, searing, passionate and the only emotion that Grantaire thought it could possibly convey is that his depth of feelings for Enjolras were reciprocated.

Grantaire wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the kiss, in the heat of Enjolras's mouth and hands wandering over his body, but there was some rogue part of him, likely the part that had pined after Enjolras for months and still thought that this whole thing must be some sort of fever dream, that blurted out, "I'm in love with you," as though he needed to clarify it.

Enjolras gave him a look that was somehow a cross between fond and exasperated. "I'm in love with you too, R." Hearing those words made his heart flip over in his chest. "I love you too, and I will not have you telling me you don't deserve it," he added, as if looking into Grantaire and scooping out all of his insecurities. 

"I--" he began, but Enjolras cut him off by sealing their mouths together, swallowing whatever crap Grantaire had been about to say with another kiss.

"Grantaire, I'm not going to let you turn this into a self-deprecating moment. I love you, I will spend every day convincing you of that. I love you," he said, his high cheekbones flushed a little pink at his rather bold declaration. His eyes were steely though, and Grantaire knew Enjolras well enough to know that he didn't do anything by halves, not even love. It made him smile, and whilst hearing Enjolras say it made his heart thump even harder in his chest he inexplicably felt more relaxed.

"That's quite a big statement," he murmured, his hands gliding down from Enjolras's hair across his back, settling on the strip of skin on his lower spine, tucked under his jumper. "I know one thing you can do that might help convince me."

"Mmm?" 

"Sealing the tent doors and a Silencing spell would be a good start."

That caused Enjolras to smile and retrieve his wand from his pocket. He momentarily disentangled himself from Grantaire to turn back to the tent flap and muttered a couple of spells. When he turned back to Grantaire, he pulled him back so that their lips grazed each other's again, this time a little sloppier and bit more urgent. With his arms around Grantaire's waist, toying with the ends of his shirt, he began to kiss down his jaw, settling on a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, which elicited something between a gasp and a groan from Grantaire. 

"God, I love magic. At least we can keep those nosy fuckers we call friends away for a little while," he said, and then pulled Enjolras down onto the camp bed.

* * *

 

There were only a few times that Grantaire felt left out of his newly found group of friends; duelling practice was one of them. His lack of magic was never an issue until he was reminded that his friends were actually waiting to fight in an actual magical war, a war that he knew he had no place in despite his involvement with Les Amis. It was odd to be the only one sitting out, unable to practice for the fight ahead, and whilst no one ever deliberately made him feel inferior, occasionally he was reminded that he would never have magic in the way that they all did. He had fallen in love with magic nearly as much as he had fallen in love with Enjolras; the way that different spells had different colours and sounds and feelings associated with them, the way they used magic for even the most mundane tasks, the wonder of the seemingly endless limits. Being constantly around it was fascinating and exhilarating, but sometimes it felt painfully out of reach.

He had taken to moping with a bottle of half-drunk firewhiskey in his hands, an all too familiar state for him. Enjolras was currently duelling against Feuilly, throwing his entire body into the spells that he was casting with a look of intense concentration on his face. A lot of the others had paired off too; Combeferre against Courfeyrac, Jehan against Bahorel, Cossette against Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta teaming up to thrash Marius. 

"Can I have a sip?" Éponine had come up from behind to join him, both of them sitting cross legged on the slightly damp grass. He handed the bottle over to her, and she took a large swig without even blinking.

Her eyes were guarded and her expression solemn; Éponine was a girl of polar opposites in that sometimes she was so bubbly and full of life, matching Grantaire's sarcasm with her own wit, but sometimes she became very withdrawn and internal, putting up a wall between herself and the rest of the group. Grantaire could tell that this was one of those moments from the guarded expression in her eyes as she stared across the clearing at the duels that she was clearly making no effort to participate in, and from the way she was gripping the bottle of alcohol a little too tightly. It was as if he were looking in a mirror, at the face of someone with some inner turmoil that they were desperate not to leak out.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"Nothing." Her response was a little too fast, completely brushing him off.

"Ponine, you can't bullshit me. I know sad drinking when I see it. Fuck, I'm practically the expert of sad drinking at this point. I can tell something's up."

She looked over at him sceptically, and then gave a bone-deep sigh. "It shouldn't be a big deal it's just... It's Gavroche's birthday today."

Éponine was a particularly private person when it came to her family. Upon his arrival he'd found out pretty much straightaway about everyone's magical heritage and family; Feuilly, Jehan and Musichetta were all muggle born whilst everyone else was at least a half-blood or a pureblood like Enjolras, although it was gratifying to see that they all complained about the terminology and how it normalised blood purity. But it had taken him longer to figure out anything about Éponine's upbringing and family since she always seemed to disappear when conversations of that kind were happening.

But Grantaire had at least been able to figure out that Gavroche was Éponine's little brother, and whenever she did talk about him her face lit up. It seemed like they'd both had a pretty hard upbringing and childhood, but the love and care that she had for her brother was very real. 

"It seems stupid, because he's at school and he's safe and away from all this shit even though he begged to come, but I wish I was there with him, especially today." She turned away from his, so she wasn't looking him in the eyes, and took another sip from the bottle. "I miss him. And I fucking hate this state of not knowing what's really going on, of just waiting around and practicing for a fight we're not even sure will come. I don't even know when I'll get to see Gav again."

"Éponine that is anything but stupid. You're obviously a great big sister since you care so much. I'm sure Gavroche misses you just as much as you miss him. And that you'll be spending his next birthday celebrating together." 

His words were confident and sure of themselves, but what Éponine had said had reopened a sense of uneasiness within him, because Grantaire was very aware that all of his friends were just sitting around waiting for a fight to come to them, that there was no foreseeable end to this war until they received word of what Harry Potter was doing to save them, or until Voldemort's power became so absolute that it was no longer possible to hide like this. His own feelings of uselessness were perhaps even more than Éponine's though, since he couldn't even use magic.

"I hope so more than anything." Her French accent became more pronounced as her voice became softer; it was almost as though she was whispering the words to herself. "Gavroche is very tough for a twelve-year-old but I'm pretty much all that he has."

She hesitated a little before carrying on, as if contemplating whether she trusted Grantaire enough to confide in him even more. He let her do so, reasoning that in this situation he just needed to be a good listener for Éponine and allow her to divulge as much as she wanted to. 

"Our parents are out of the picture. They're Muggles, and when I got the letter saying I'd been accepted into Beauxbatons they essentially threw me out, even though I'd been my mother's favourite up to that point. But Gav has always been essentially despised by them anyway, so he's never really had a parent's love. We only got to celebrate his birthday properly last year, the first year he came to Beauxbatons too. I'll never forget how much he lit up when I gave him a present and kicked up a fuss for him. I managed to convince the cooks to make some cupcakes and macarons for him and his friends to share." She smiled, clearly lost in the happy memory. "Cosette even gave him a quill which she enchanted herself to change colour, turn invisible and glow in the dark upon request. I think he preferred it to my present if I'm honest."

Éponine looked over at the Cosette, who had abandoned her own duel in order to take care of Marius, who was lying on the floor having been thoroughly stunned by either Bossuet or Musichetta. Marius looked dazed, although Grantaire was sure that dazed was a permanent expression on Marius, and Cosette was looking at him with a mixture of concern and fondness as she helped him get unsteadily back on his feet.

There was something in Éponine's eyes that Grantaire couldn't quite place, some mixture of jealousy, resignation and adoration. He couldn't really tell if it was directed towards Cosette or Marius, who was the one he'd suspected she'd been in love with until now. Marius was dense and Éponine obvious at times, but now Grantaire wondered if there was something more to the story too.

"You sure that missing Gavroche's birthday is the only thing you're moping after?"

She tore her eyes away and gave him a wry but sad smile. "I think sharing time is over."

"Okay, sure. But I know what pining is like. I know how painful it can be to think that your love is hopeless and unrequited." He took the bottle back from her, taking his own sip. "I know how much it hurts."

Incredulity peppered her features. "Sure, but you got the guy, R. Your feelings turned out to be not so unrequited."

He didn't think the shock of that fact would ever truly lessen, but he was also sure that saying that probably wouldn't reassure Éponine.

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt still when I thought they were unrequited. God, you should have seen me before we got together. I’m sure I was a pathetic, pining mess.” He remembered all the times when he would sneak a glance at Enjolras when he was deep in thought, remembered how his heart would thump almost painfully in his chest every time they touched hands to apparate. “Actually, I don’t think I would have wanted any of you guys to see how far gone I was for Enjolras before. It’s probably hugely embarrassing. I think one time my heart wouldn’t stop racing for a solid half an hour just because he smiled at me.”

That at least earned him a smile, a genuine one. “You’re cute, R. And you deserve your happiness.”

“So do you, Éponine. In whatever form that takes.”

Across the clearing, Marius had dusted himself off and the duelling had resumed in full force, and while Grantaire and Éponine contemplated love and happiness, the rest of their young group of friends were preparing for a war that was inextricably tied to those very things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the scene of grantaire listening to enjolras talk on potterwatch was my favourite scene to write and the one that sparked this au in my mind so i hope you like  
> also i love éponine far too damn much so i couldn't resist having a scene focusing on just her and grantaire oops  
> also find me on [tumblr](http://maychang.co.vu/) and scream about les amis with me


	3. trois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we've reached the end! thanks so much for reading, I'm so happy I actually managed to finish and publish a complete work for once ahahah  
> there's still so much more I kinda wanted to include about this verse, but I think I ended it in the right place  
> also I'm posting this from uni which is really fucking weird, I only moved in two days ago so everything is so different now, idk how much time I'm gonna have to write so I;m glad I finished this in the summer lmao  
> let me know what you think!

It was a mild May morning when the radio blared with the message that had been long awaited and dreaded in equal measures. It was a deep, slightly African accented voice that Grantaire recognised from Potterwatch but couldn’t put a name behind.

“Apollo? Are you there?”

Enjolras, who’d been absently playing with Grantaire’s hair, immediately leapt up and seized the radio.

“I’m here. What is it, Royal?”

“All members of the Order of the Phoenix are meeting at Hogsmeade, at Aberforth Dumbledore’s house. This is it. Harry Potter has gone into Hogwarts and reports are that You-Know-Who is already on his way. Harry is likely going to need all the back up he can get. Bring your friends with you, we don’t know what the situation will be and whether there will be any fighting, but all of your help will be appreciated.”

Enjolras’s fingers were trembling slightly, but his voice was firm and unwavering. “We will be there as soon as possible.”

 _This is it._ The words echoed in Grantaire’s mind, but he was finding it hard to process them. To figure out what this really meant, what was going to happen now. There was a rational part of him that knew that this was where his journey with Les Amis ended, that he couldn’t follow them into battle, that it would be blindingly stupid to even contemplate doing so, but that didn’t stop a sick feeling curling in his stomach at the thought of his utter helplessness. He couldn’t stop them throwing themselves into danger and couldn’t throw himself into it with them. He would follow Enjolras to the ends of the Earth, but he couldn’t stop him from bursting out of their tent in an excited, nervous frenzy, calling the rest of their group of their group to arms.

“The time is here!” He shouted, explaining the situation to Les Amis, who all began to get stirred up, roused by the urgency and excitement in Enjolras’s words. Grantaire felt numb, tuning out the flurry of movement that began happening on their campsite as tents were packed up at the wave of a wand and the protective spells surrounding them were lifted. 

“R?” Enjolras’s voice broke him out of his reverie, his intonation soft and unsure as opposed to the loud certainty of his previous exclamations to the rest of their friends. “Are you okay?”

“I want to go with you so badly,” he found himself blurting out, his mouth once again betraying him.

“Grantaire, you know why you can't,” said Enjolras, his face that had been so confident and assured crumpling. “We can’t protect you from all the worst forms of magic that we might encounter. I couldn’t stand the thought of you unnecessarily throwing yourself into danger.”

“ _I_ can’t stand the thought of _you_ unnecessarily throwing yourself into danger, Enjolras. Christ, the idea of not knowing what’s happening to you, to any of you is physically unbearable. I’m going to be an even bigger mess than I already am now. I don’t care about this cause the same way you do, but I care about you, and about you being safe. And I know it's stupid, but I have this rather irrational side of me that would rather stand with you no matter what, to take your hand and take my chances if you would allow it."

Enjolras kissed him then, desperately. It was a kiss that seemed to convey something that words could not, from the bruising force of Enjolras's teeth clacking against his own to the way that Grantaire's fingers clung to Enjolras's red jacket. 

"Under any other circumstances," whispered Enjolras as he pulled back, their faces merely inches apart and their breaths mingling, "if you were anyone else with any kind of magic I would love to have you fight side by side with me. But I can't. You can't. And as hard as it's going to be, we both need to let go for this short time and accept our roles."

Grantaire honestly couldn't remember when he'd started crying, but he was aware that his face was wet with tears. "You don't have to go. You don't have to put yourself in danger. This doesn't have to be your fight."

It was a selfish thing to say, and Grantaire knew it, but all of a sudden he was having thoughts of Enjolras being too rash, being too enthusiastic about battle, getting carried away and ending up fucking single-handedly fighting Voldemort himself.

Enjolras's bright blue eyes were shimmering with tears, but he evidently had more self-restraint than Grantaire as he didn't allow them to fall. "I can't, R. This is too important, I have to be there and fight in whatever way I can." He leant in further into Grantaire's embrace, as if breathing him in. "but Grantaire, you give me a reason to keep fighting and to make it back to you. I love you, and I promise I'll be back soon."

Grantaire knew he wouldn't be able to convince him not to go, not when Enjolras's steely look of determination had returned. But it was heart-wrenching to break their embrace, to look Enjolras in the eyes and say, "Okay. I'll be waiting for you. For all of you. Don't do anything too dumb. I love you too."

Enjolras took his hand and squeezed it, as if reassuring him that everything would be okay. Grantaire knew wouldn’t be able to let himself believe it until he saw all of his friends victorious from this battle that they were likely heading into.

When he turned back to look at Les Amis de l'ABC, at this group of rebellious young people so full of hope and righteousness about their task, his heart cracked open a little more. Before he knew what was happening, he was being engulfed in a wave of hugs from each of his friends. Jehan, who always wore his emotions on his sleeve, cried a little and kissed him on the cheek. Bahorel nearly rugby tackled him to the ground with the force of his embrace. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta all gave him individual hugs and then wrangled him into one big group hug, so tight he could barely breathe. Courfeyrac mumbled into his shoulder that he was probably better in a fight than Marius anyway and that he wished they could swap, before, in true French fashion, giving him twin kisses on either cheek. Éponine's hug was probably the fiercest, and he kissed her forehead, reminding her quietly how strong she was. Grantaire had never felt so loved by a group of genuinely amazing people; he couldn't believe that these French dorks who'd taken him into their little family were all about to risk their lives to protect not only their own kind, but the ordinary folk like him.

"I'm going to take Grantaire home, back to the village he's from." Enjolras's voice remained steady and calm. "And then we'll go to Hogsmeade and see what happens from there."

This ominous-sounding statement did nothing to dampen the spirits of Les Amis, who all smiled back at him with a cacophony of ' _Au revoir, R!'_ and _'Goodbye,_ _Grantaire_ _!'s_ filling the air.

Managing a smile back, and with his heart bursting with love for all of them, he said, "Good luck, you crazy wizards. I'll see you all on the other side." And he took Enjolras's hand, letting the now familiar lurching sensation of Apparating wash over him as the faces of his friends faded from his vision.

Being back in Colby was strange after all these months. Grantaire had changed so much but the village was still the same picturesque English village it had always been. He'd walked down the street they'd Apparated to countless times before; it should have been as familiar to Grantaire as his own body but it felt very alien to him, as if it was an entirely other version of himself that had drunkenly stumbled through the alleyways branching off the main street or sketched the derelict church across the road. He was so distant from his ignorant younger self, who knew nothing about magic and the dangers and war that accompanied it, but also knew nothing about Enjolras and Les Amis and the bright, burning love he had for all of them. He'd always known that Colby was a transient place for him, that bigger things awaited him beyond the confines of the small village, but he'd been so fixated on the idea of London being the place to transport him into the man that he wanted to become. He hadn't even thought that perhaps a group of extraordinary people, with one most extraordinary man at their centre, would do it instead.

The last time they'd been on this street, there had been snow dusting the pavement. Now there was only a bit of water from the latest shower and a bit of litter. Enjolras had looked out of place then, and he looked even more out of place now; him being there embodied the clash between Grantaire's kind of shit old life and his exciting, full of hope new one. 

The two of them were still holding hands, neither one wanting to let go just yet. "I can't believe this is where we first met. It feels like a lifetime ago," said Grantaire.

Enjolras smiled a little. "I can't believe when we first met you interfered in a magical duel and punched a Death Eater in the face. Looking back, it was actually very in character for you."

A moment of silence descended upon them, their fingers still entwined. Finally, Enjolras said, "Will you show me to your house? It will make it easier when I Apparate back to you once it's all over." Grantaire liked Enjolras's certainty; it made up for his own lack of it. 

His muscle memory took over, and before he knew it he was outside his house, hand-in-hand with his boyfriend. He'd sporadically kept in touch with his father and a few people in the village whenever he'd been near a payphone, mainly to let them know that he was still alive and doing okay, considering he'd accidentally packed up and left without even formally quitting his jobs. His dad was under the impression he'd gone to stay at a friend's house in France to experience some culture and get inspiration for his art portfolio; according to his friend Floreal everyone was under the impression that he'd gotten gap-year fever and was off 'finding himself', which was probably closer to the truth. 

"Grantaire." Enjolras looked almost glowing, his golden curls framing his face and his red coat making his skin stand out, but he was reminded of Enjolras's vulnerability as his fingers began to tremble as they brushed some hair from Grantaire's face. He was at once the self-righteous god that had drawn him in and the imperfect man that he had fallen in love with.

Their kiss was bittersweet, but it wasn't a goodbye. Enjolras broke it off before Grantaire could even begin to get lost in him, leaving the moment unfinished with a promise of more to come. "À bientôt, Grantaire." _See you soon._

He untangled their hands with a smile, and though Grantaire's heart was almost breaking with the negativity swirling around in his head he managed a smile back. There was a loud crack, the tell-tale sign of Apparition, and he was gone.

He stood on his front porch looking like an idiot for too long, staring at the last spot Enjolras had been in. An odd look from a passing neighbour jerked him into action, fumbling for the housekeys that he'd somehow managed to keep safe in his green coat pocket for all this time. 

His dad wasn't in, for which Grantaire was thankful. He wasn't sure how he would've even begun to explain his sudden presence or his nervous disposition that was already make his hands shake and his feet want to pace endlessly. The idea of not knowing what was happening to his friends, to Enjolras, was absolutely unbearable. He genuinely didn't know how we was going to handle all of this waiting.

"Christ," he muttered to himself, heading for the kitchen. "I need a fucking drink."

* * *

 

Grantaire woke up disorientated, groggy and with a hangover piercing his skull. He was in his bed, although he didn't exactly remember getting there and he had fallen asleep on top of his covers. His room was at once familiar and alien, comforting and unknown. His art was plastered on the walls, his mess still lay cluttered on the floor, untouched by his father. But he'd become so used to sleeping near a living, breathing body. The absence of Enjolras was a gaping hole in his chest, not just because he wasn't there physically, but also because there was a huge blank in his mind about his current wellbeing.

However, what he had at first perceived to be his headache throbbing in his ears seemed to be a knocking sound coming from downstairs. His heart leapt at what the implications of that might be and his grogginess cleared a little, although in hindsight drinking to medicate and try to alleviate his worry was not the best of ideas. He stumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping over his own heavy feet in the process.

When he finally made it to the front door he flung it open, his heart hammering in his chest. It had only been a day or so, but it felt like a lifetime since he had seen Enjolras last, but he was here on his doorstep, alive and safe. His signature red coat was torn at the sleeves, his face had a huge bruise under his eye and his blond hair was dishevelled and grimy, but he was _alive._ That was all that Grantaire cared about ultimately, what he had been most worried about. He hadn’t even fully opened the door before he was crashing into Enjolras’s arms, holding on for dear life. Enjolras returned the gesture; his embrace was perhaps even more crushing that Grantaire’s. It took him a couple of seconds to realise that Enjolras was shuddering beneath him, silent sobs that shook his entire body. 

Grantaire didn’t think he’d ever seen Enjolras so vulnerable, so utterly open and emotionally raw. He didn’t need to say anything for him to know that it had been bad, that things had gone wrong. The faces of the rest of Les Amis flashed before Grantaire’s eyes, and he felt physically sick at the thought of what might have happened. His initial relief at seeing Enjolras alive quickly washed away, leaving only dread for the tale that Enjolras had to spin.

Grantaire held him until his sobs subsided and then led him inside and sat him down in the living room. Enjolras didn’t apologise or say anything else, instead just gripped Grantaire’s hand so tight it ached. His tears had stained his grimy cheeks, but his expression was now resolute and grave.

“What happened, Enjolras?” He tried hard to keep his own voice steady, but couldn’t keep out the hint of a wobble.

“We won.” He stated it without emotion, without that spark that Grantaire had become so used to hearing behind Enjolras’s words. “The war is over. Voldemort is defeated.”

Hearing the name out loud for the first time was odd, but it solidified that the victory was real. But it felt empty, because Grantaire knew from the look in Enjolras’s eyes that it wasn’t without sacrifice. "What really happened?”

“I led my friends into slaughter, R,” he said, making his heart go cold. “I led them into the horrors of death and suffering, so swept away by the cause. I wanted it to be glorious, I wanted it to be righteous. But the reality was watching children die at the hands of monsters, of watching good people lose their life for their loved ones or for strangers. There was glory and determination and the beautiful essence of the determined human spirit that came out to fight, but it was among such heart-breaking loss. It may have been worth it, and we won, but the price was high, Grantaire. I don’t think I truly comprehended how high it would be.”

Grantaire couldn’t even imagine it. From an outside perspective, from his perspective a few months ago, a magical war seemed so fantastical and far off, happening to strange people, to wizards who were so different from the mundane world he’d known for so long. But seeing Enjolras’s pained expression reminded him that in reality the people dying were young people and school children no different from him. Their magic didn’t make them any less human. 

“Who did you lose?” Grantaire didn’t want to say ‘who did we lose?’; it would mean that he was acknowledging that the twelve faces of Les Amis that he had waved off might be diminished in number. 

“Bahorel.” The name was like a punch to the gut, a chasm opening up within him. He couldn’t truly comprehend that his easy-going friend wouldn’t be there to greet him again. He didn’t let any tears fall, but his grip on the edge of the sofa tightened noticeably; Enjolras noticed immediately and took his hand, so that he could cling onto Enjolras instead. “Friends from Hogwarts: Fred Weasley, Lavender Brown. Friends from the Order of the Phoenix: Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks. Even Harry Potter was thought to be dead, although only briefly. That was the lowest point, when even the emblem of hope of defeating Voldemort was seemingly wiped away.” Though the names didn’t mean anything to Grantaire specifically, he could tell that the losses were staggering. 

Enjolras hesitated a little before carrying on, looking at him with slight trepidation. “Éponine...” His panic must have been evident in his face; Enjolras knew that he and Éponine had grown particularly close over the last few weeks. “She’s not dead, but she took a really bad curse. Even with magical means, she probably won’t be able to walk again.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, because he couldn’t find words to say anything else. “Fuck.”

They sat in silence for a little while, to allow the magnitude of the battle and its consequences sink in fully for both of them. The only thing keeping Grantaire tethered was Enjolras’s hand in his, gripping on tightly.

“Nothing is ever going to be the same again,” said Enjolras eventually, breaking the silence. “For any of us individually and for the wizarding community as a whole. This one battle has changed everything.” Grantaire didn’t think he’d ever heard Enjolras sound so unsure.

In an utter role reversal, Grantaire countered Enjolras’s uncharacteristic scepticism with the words of encouragement and hope that he knew Enjolras needed to hear. “But you’re forgetting that you won, and you’re alive. You can help to affect the positive changes you’re always going on about. The worst of it is over, Enjolras, but your revolution is just beginning.” 

That finally earned him a smile, the first that he’d seen from Enjolras that afternoon. “And it’s selfish,” he added, “but I’m just glad that _you’re_ alive. I was worried sick about all of you, but you most of all because you can be so _reckless_ and _self-sacrificing_ and I couldn’t fucking do anything, not for you or Éponine or Bahorel...” He trailed off as his words devolved into the sobs that he’d held back this whole time; he wasn’t even sure if they were wholly tears of grief or tears of relief, most likely some combination of both. It was cathartic to let all the emotions he had had been repressing with a bottle of whiskey last night finally spill out. 

Enjolras let him cry, holding him while this new reality settled in for the both of them. 

* * *

 

After the tears and the grief had finally sunk in, Grantaire was surprised to find himself excited at Enjolras’s suggestion of going to Hogwarts.

“It was my home for two years,” Enjolras said, “and where all of our friends are. All of the wards are down, so this is probably the only time I’ll ever get to show it to you, which is a little depressing since it’s half destroyed from the battle.”

Grantaire took Enjolras’s hand, a clear invitation for Apparition. “I don’t care. I just want to see everyone.”

The now-familiar lurch of Apparition came with a mixed feeling of dread and anticipation. They had Apparated on the bridge leading into the castle that Grantaire had heard so much about. Enjolras had been right: it was partially destroyed with rubble and ruin everywhere. But that didn’t entirely stop the awe of seeing the great castle which held so much magic. For the first time it felt like he was being given more than a glimpse into the magical world; it cemented just how real and big this society was beyond the friends he had become used to being around.

Despite the obvious damage, the building was still monumentally impressive: a tall, towering structure with turrets and medieval elements. It seemed straight out of a fairy tale, a place fit for a king, and it was hard to imagine that it was actually a school full of teenagers since his own comparison was the shitty one-story high school building he’d attended.

Enjolras was looking at the castle with an expression of sadness and nostalgia; it must have been hard to see a place that Grantaire knew he loved so dearly as a battleground. But even as they approached the entrance he noticed that some of the debris had begun to be cleared, and he was certain that, especially with the aid of magic, the school would recover its superficial damage. The damage to the inhabitants was the true concern.

With their hands still interlinked, Enjolras led him through the entrance to a huge hall filled with people of all descriptions. There were people huddled together, injured people being cared for, people sitting on benches digging into some food, people looked dazed and shell-shocked but mostly just happy to be alive, happy to have won. It hit him all of a sudden that he was the only non-magical person in the room, that by all rights he absolutely shouldn’t be here surrounded by witches and wizards. The minute he spotted Les Amis, the sense of not belonging vanished and all he saw were his friends, bruised and broken but smiling at the sight of him and Enjolras.

Jehan was the first to rise and give him a hug. “Grantaire!” he exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He had a cut above his right eye but other than that seemed unharmed, for which Grantaire was grateful. He couldn’t imagine the light and dreamy Jehan in battle until he heard a couple of Hogwarts kids whispering excitedly, “That’s the guy who took on four Death Eaters by himself and escaped unscathed.” Clearly they weren’t talking about Grantaire, and when he raised his eyebrows at Jehan he just shrugged and laughed, the sweetest sound among all this sorrow.

The rest of his friends slowly came over to greet him. They all had various degrees of injuries, including Bossuet sporting a bandage on nearly every limb including his head and still smiling, but nothing seemed obviously life threatening. Éponine, however, was nowhere to be seen, and the absence of Bahorel was gaping. Their smiles were genuine but their eyes were all sad and despondent, still struggling to process the trauma they all went through.

Marius was the only one not to acknowledge his presence; he was visibly upset and despite both Cosette and Courfeyrac at either side comforting him, he still seemed distressed, repeating helpless variations of “It should have been me, it’s my fault, oh God”. His face was wet with tears, but they carried on flowing.

“Will he be okay? What happened?” he whispered to Enjolras, pulling him aside from the rest of the group. A part of him already knew the answer.

“He blames himself for what happened to Éponine. She jumped in front of him and took the curse that was meant for him. It’s going to be hard for him to recover from that, from knowing that if it weren’t for him she would still be okay and standing.”

He knew why Éponine had done it; he would have done the same thing for Enjolras in a heartbeat. “Where is she?”

“Still with the healers. They’ll be transferring her to St. Mungo’s hospital at some point.” Enjolras looked over at Marius. “It will be tough for her. There aren’t that many disabled witches and wizards around.”

“She’s the strongest person I know,” said Grantaire. “If anyone can pull through, she can.”

He turned back to the rest of Les Amis de l’ABC, to the faces of the people who had welcomed him in despite the glaring difference between them and who had laughed and joked with him and become his dearest friends, to the faces of the young adults who had fought and suffered for justice and freedom and humanity in a country that wasn’t even theirs. “I love you all so much,” he pronounced, his heart filled with admiration for all of them. They had defeated the odds and come through victorious on the other side, something which Grantaire had never truly allowed himself to believe would happen. “I’m so proud.”

The look Enjolras gave him was so soft that Grantaire didn’t know what to do with it except blush a little.

They were interrupted by a girl’s voice shouting “Enjolras!” and an ambush of frizzy hair. A petite black girl with a southern English accent came running over to give Enjolras a hug. “God, I missed you this year. I’m so glad you’re here, and you’re alright.”

Enjolras, who’d looked startled at first, laughed and hugged her back. “I could say the same to you, Hermione.”

 _Ah,_ thought Grantaire, _so this is the famed Hermione Granger._ She looked weary from the battle but was beaming up at Enjolras, clearly happy to be reunited with her friend. According to Enjolras, she’d dropped off the grid along with Harry Potter and their friend Ron Weasley, supposedly on a mission that would help them defeat Voldemort. Whatever they’d been up to, it had clearly paid off.

Having disentangled herself from Enjolras, she looked round at the rest of them. “These must be Les Amis de l’ABC,” she said, slightly butchering the French pronunciation of the words but going with it anyway. “Enjolras never stopped going on about you the entire two years he was at Hogwarts. You were definitely the thing he missed most from France and Beauxbatons. We’re so honoured that you chose to fight with us.”

“It was the right thing to do,” said Combeferre, regarding Hermione with a smile and a look of respect. 

Nodding round to the group, Enjolras hastily introduced them all to her. When it came to him, she looked a little confused. “Grantaire? I don’t think I’ve heard you mention a Grantaire before,” she said, showing that she was perceptive enough and a good enough friend to have actually listened and retained information about Enjolras’s friends.

“I’m new,” he said, giving her a smile and shaking her hand. “Glad to finally meet you.”

“Oh, you’re English?” He never really thought about the fact that his accent was so different from his French companions that it was a dead giveaway for how British he was; it seemed like a small difference when compared to his lack of magic. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around Hogwarts though.”

Before he could answer, Jehan butted in, leaning in to talk directly to Hermione. “Yes he is English, no he’s not a wizard so you wouldn’t have seen him before. It’s crazy that somehow whilst on the run in the midst of a war Enjolras managed to acquire a cute, muggle boyfriend,” he said, turning back to give Grantaire a wink.

If Hermione was shocked that he was a muggle but was here at Hogwarts she didn’t show it. She had probably seen weirder things that day. “Well,” said Hermione, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, “he isn’t the only one who procured a boyfriend in the middle of this war.”

“You and Ron?” asked Enjolras, grinning down at her.

“He freed the house-elves from the Hogwarts kitchen to help in the battle, Enjolras. I couldn’t hold my affections in any longer.” Her voice had turned into almost a swoon at the thought of it. 

“That’s amazing,” Enjolras said. “I guess love has a way of manifesting itself, even in the darkest times.” He looked straight at Grantaire whilst saying it.

“Especially in the darkest times,” agreed Hermione. “Speaking of...” She gestured over where two boys were standing, looking over at her interacting with them. One was ginger and freckled, and looking at Hermione with fondness and Enjolras with trepidation; likely Ron, Hermione’s new boyfriend. The boy next to him was skinny and had messy dark hair. He kept fiddling with his forehead and was keeping his eyes down to avoid attracting too much attention from the crowd around him. Grantaire somehow knew that he was looking at Harry Potter himself, the Chosen One who had taken down Voldemort. From this distance he looked nothing more than an ordinary kid a couple of years younger than him.

“I’m so glad I saw you, Enjolras,” Hermione said as she parted from them, giving Enjolras a quick kiss on the cheek. “We’ll have to catch up properly in a bit. Exchange stories about what we’ve both been up to this past year.”

"I look forward to it,” said Enjolras, watching her join up with her friends as he turned back to his own.

* * *

 

The rest of the day passed by in a blur. Tables were brought out and hot food produced for everyone still recovering from the battle at one point. No one questioned Grantaire’s presence or even noticed his lack of magic; everyone was too relieved to be alive and celebrating a victory. Although he felt somewhat of a fraud, since he hadn’t participated in the fight, his friends made him feel as welcome as they always did. They shared a hearty drink for Bahorel when someone produced a few bottles of beer and fire-whiskey, and shared all of their good memories of him to try and take away some of the sadness that was still clouding over all of them. Even Marius had recovered enough to share an anecdote about Bahorel having to be physically restrained from punching Marius’s grandfather at Beauxbatons graduation because of a howler that he’d sent to Marius the week before. The lack of both his and Éponine’s laugh around the table was still unsettling; he was sure that it would never not be weird.

As the sun set, he found himself alone with Enjolras, sitting outside in one of the courtyards of the castle. Rock and debris covered about half of it, but there was still a bench intact enough for the both of them to sit on, their knees pressed against each other. Grantaire looked up at the castle towering above him, still amazed that such an enchanting building existed and that Enjolras had called it home for two years.

Enjolras himself was looking forlorn and a little lost. Now that the aftermath of the battle had died down, they were both suddenly faced with a world that was irrevocably different for both of them, but more so for Enjolras. He’d thrown all of his energy into this cause, into this fight. Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure who he’d be without it.

“So, what now?” It was a deliberately open question, spoken to determine Enjolras’s unreadable thoughts.

“What now indeed.” Enjolras’s voice was despondent. “I should be elated about our victory but I just feel _empty._ I don’t think I truly allowed myself to visualise what a life after we’d won looked like.”

“That’s because there was a part of you that didn’t expect to have a life after you’d won.” It was a blunt statement, but Grantaire knew it was true. Or he at least believed it to be true. “You couldn’t imagine a future because you didn’t think you’d have one.”

Enjolras, though, looked slightly affronted by his words. “That’s not fully true.” He absently touched Grantaire’s arm, his cheek. “I didn’t let myself think of an entire future, but I knew that you’d be in it. You’re a constant in my life, R. Even though I don’t know what’s going to happen now, what I’m going to do, I know that I want you to be in it.”

“I’ll follow you whatever path you decide to take, if you permit it,” said Grantaire, his voice unwavering and absolute.

“You don’t need to ask my permission, Grantaire, or blindly follow me for that matter. We’re a team, but you have as much say as I do in this. What would you say if I told you that it had always been my life dream to study blast-ended skrewts in the wilderness of Denmark or something equally absurd.”

“I have absolutely no idea what a blast-ended skrewt is and honestly I don’t want to find out,” said Grantaire. “But it would be my choice. And I would choose to go with you, no matter what.” He knew it was probably stupid on the surface, for all of his trust to be so wholly in Enjolras’s hands, but he’d decided within himself long ago that he would follow Enjolras regardless of any stupid decisions he would make. He nearly followed him into a magical war where he would have had absolutely no power or hope of surviving, merely to be near Enjolras’s blazing light in action. 

“And I know you,” he added. “I know that even though your side has won, and this war is over, you can’t just stop fighting. For you, this is just the beginning.”

“You’re right.” That spark, that passion that had seemed distant since he’d appeared on Grantaire’s doorstep began to rekindle behind Enjolras’s eyes. “The magical world is still so far from perfect. The wizarding community here in Britain is going to take a while to rebuild fully and to settle after such huge upheavals. It’s the perfect opportunity to enact changes, to reform the Ministry and change people’s attitudes so that something like this doesn’t happen again.”

He had gotten up and started pacing, suddenly itching with restless energy that needed to be released somehow. His words had steadily gotten faster as Enjolras’s voice rose with volume and frenzy, but he still managed to retain his innate eloquence which Grantaire found impressive.

“But France is my home. And the systems and governing there are also definitely in need of some revolution. Perhaps the momentum from the fight here could spur other countries like France into action about some of the backwards attitudes ingrained in wizarding society and--” 

“Enjolras,” said Grantaire, interrupting his tirade. “You’re a fighter. And I will begrudgingly admit that you will continue to find things that need improving and fight for them, no matter where you are. It doesn’t matter whether you decide to stay in Britain or go back to France to me, I’ll just be happy watch you throw yourself into something you believe in." He knew that he didn’t really need anything else, because as long as Enjolras was doing something he was passionate about, he was happy to sit on the side-lines and believe just in Enjolras.

Enjolras himself, however, wasn’t going to settle easily on Grantaire’s subtle self-deprecation. “But what about you? What do you want to do? I feel as though I’ve just whisked you away from everything, and now I’m not even stopping to consider what your plans were before you met me.”

It still astounded Grantaire how much Enjolras demonstrated, often without realising, just how much he _cared_ about Grantaire. It sent his heart flipping over in his chest.

“London.” The dream of art school in the country’s capital that had been simmering away since his first trip there with his mother had always been his driving force, even when he felt as though his life was heading steadily towards the gutter. “London was always the plan, trying my luck at getting into one of the prestigious art schools.”

“It’s settled then. We stay in England.” 

“It’s not that simple, Enjolras. It rarely is.” He smiled and took Enjolras’s hand, tugging him back down so that they were both sat on the bench, their faces level with each other.  “I think I latched onto London so much because I just really needed to get out of the small village I’d grown up in and meet new and diverse people, which I’ve already done through being with you. And art is still the dream, but I can do it in either London or Paris, as long as I’m with you and the rest of Les Amis. And besides,” he said, switching to French, “ _my French could do with some improvement.”_

 _“I suppose you’re right,”_ replied Enjolras, laughing a little behind his words. “ _Your accent is horrible.”_

Grantaire smiled at that. He could hardly imagine a time when he didn’t have Enjolras’s smile in his life, a time where he wasn’t privileged enough to hear his laugh. It had been so nearly ripped away from him in the past forty-eight hours; he would never have felt this warm again. With Enjolras still smiling fondly at him, he closed the distance between their lips, softly kissing the man he loved so much.

The golden tones of sunset were fading; night had begun to descend upon them. Around them, the ruined castle was ready to be rebuilt, relationships were ready to be redefined. Grantaire had no idea how he’d gotten there, sitting under the starlight kissing a beautiful blond-haired boy full of magic and wonder, but he knew that his future was exponentially brighter with Enjolras’s light in it.

“Thank you,” he whispered as they broke apart.

He wasn’t entirely sure if the words were meant for Enjolras, of if they were simply for the universe itself instead, for bringing magic into his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about bahorel, it was sad writing about any of les amis dying but I knew that in order for it to be realistic for the battle of Hogwarts at least one of them were going to have to die. I had actually originally planned for it to be both bahorel and eponine, but at the last minute decided that I loved her too much to actually kill her off and since this is self indulgent fanfic I just made her sacrifice less fatal  
> I know it's such an open ending, but I literally couldn't decide whether I preferred enjolras staying in England or going back to France, so you can imagine either of them happening, as long as him and r are together  
> love you all for sticking around and reading, feel free to hmu on [tumblr](http://maychang.co.vu) if you wanna obsess of les mis with me <3

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, see you next week for my next update  
> (also yes this fic will contain quite a lot of enjolras hyping up R and telling him he's worth it even when he doesn't think he is, because honestly that's my kink so look forward to more)


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